Broken Lookout
by Koboldlord
Summary: Charles the Lone Wander flees to the mysterious island of Point Lookout after suffering too many blows back home in the Capital Wasteland. Demons, both in and out, haunt his steps and his self-destructive behavior could prove more dangerous than the island itself. Yet a certain mercenary's feelings may compel her to act. Contains violence, drug and alcohol addiction MWander/Riley
1. Landing

The salty sea air came rolling over the deck, blown down river by the wind, carrying with it the ever so subtle hint suggesting, despite the water's halfway clean appearance, harmful radiation had polluted every drop. In the sky overhead a radgull screamed as it wheeled, searching for something Charles couldn't see and didn't much care too. The strange creature served as just one more reminder he was leaving his home far behind, for a place he wasn't sure anyone could follow, or that he even wanted them too if they could.

Reaching into the front pocket of the patched and battered black vest making up one part of his usual ensemble, Charles withdrew the glass bottle of whiskey, looking down sadly at the distinct lack of actual whiskey found inside that bottle. Yanking the cork free with a tired resignation suggesting a degree of exhaustion not normally found in one so young, the Lone Wanderer tipped the bottle to his lips and emptied its contents down his throat. Feeling the warm burn, accompanied by the slight haze brought the ghost of a smile to his lips.

"Look at me now dad," he muttered, throwing the bottle into the river. The glass object splashed with less drama than he'd hoped before sinking beneath the water. For a fraction of a second, he could hear the ghost of his father's voice and see the pained expression it bore at his casual disregard for an already damaged nature. "Go away, again," Charles muttered in response to his father's ghost and the spectral James seemed to honor his wishes, vanishing back into the ether.

The sky above him continued to grow greener, the trees along the shore becoming gnarled, twisting, alien things he'd never seen in the Capital Wasteland. A sudden spike of pained nostalgia struck him, a vision of Megaton invading his consciousness accompanied by a sinking feeling in his gut at how he'd put a month's distance between himself and DC. Not even his journey to the Pitt had taken him so far away from home, and then people had known he was leaving, now…

But wasn't that what he wanted? What had the Capital Wasteland ever done for him but take, take and take again?

Charles shook his head defiantly, "No," he murmured to himself, desperately wishing he'd brought more alcohol with him on the journey, hating the sickening feeling of regret that invaded his stomach at the thought of his cowardice, brought on by sobriety. He was running away, and he was probably never going back. Not for anyone, not Li, not Simms or Riley…

"No," he growled again, shaking away the image of the spunky mercenary, he was Point Lookout bound, and that was all there was.

"A good omen!" A jubilant voice announced bombastically from behind him. The tone Charles recognized as belonging to the only other living soul aboard the _Duchess Gambit_ , ferryman Tobar's broad smiling face and bold mustache appearing in the younger man's field of vision. Despite Charles' sullen instance on attempting a degree of solitude during the trip, the gregarious sailor continued to try and make conversation.

Realizing his host wouldn't leave him alone until he'd answered, Charles did his best to humor the other man, "What is?" There was a degree of forced levity he didn't feel, but knew Tobar needed to hear.

"The gulls," he gestured upward with a stubby finger, pointing out the irradiated fowls happily. "They can sense the storms long before us poor humans do. If we were in for it, they'd be long gone. Not that a little rain would stop us, eh?" He chuckled boldly, slapping a broad hand across Charles' back. For all his flaws, the ferryman was right about that truth, Charles was getting to Point Lookout, one way or another.

He'd heard the radio signal on his Pipboy long ago, the repeated advertisement for an exotic local full of danger the last thing on his mind then. He had a father to find, a Vault to return too, and, with an increasing amount of obsession, a book to co-author. But then…. No! It wouldn't do to dwell.

"You know," Tobar probed cautiously, fishing for some information on his Vault-dwelling client before returning to the wheel at the forefront of his fine steamboat. "We've been traveling together for almost a month now and I don't think I have two sentences from you to rub together," he stroked his stubbly chin thoughtfully, looking outward towards the alien shores of the rapidly approaching Point Lookout, as if mere eyes could pierce the swirling mists moving about the swamps.

Charles looked at his host with something resembling admonishment, as if the ferryman expected to pierce the veil the Lone Wanderer had erected around himself. In truth, he'd have better luck seeing through the physical fog. "And you expect that to change?" He'd learned a degree of sarcasm from Charon, his Ghoul bodyguard having a particularly sardonic style of humor when the mood struck him. He missed Charon, and Dogmeat too, but knew this was something he had to do on his own….especially if things went as he expected and he died in the swamps. He may have been slowly descending from a paragon of virtue into an alcoholic, chem-addicted wreck, but he wasn't going to get his friends killed in the process of chasing his own death.

"I do," Tobar responded casually, slipping a hand into the front pocked of his bulky jacket, it's dull red near identical in shade to the long-sleeved shirt that Charles wore beneath the pocketed vest.

"Why?" It was a fair question; he'd been mostly silent thus far after all.

"Because I've seen you smoking," the Ferryman responded coyly, withdrawing a sealed packet of cigarettes from the pocket, holding them tantalizingly before Charles, "And I know you've run out."

Smoking, Charles' one vice, at least it had been, before everything in his life went to crap. As he felt the shivers along his body, a tantalizing whisper for another hit of Med-x, he found himself longing for the days when all he did was smoke. "I'm not an idiot," Charles answered bluntly, slowly nodding his head in the affirmative.

Tossing the packet across the deck, which Charles gracefully caught one-handed, Tobar asked his first question, "What did you do? I've got a guess, seeing as you're willing to dive headfirst into the mysteries of the Point, looking for treasure and whatnot without hesitation. Also, the armory gave it away," nodding his head in the direction of the cabin, Tobar made clear reference to the two duffle bags of guns, ammunition and supplies Charles had brought along with him, which, admittedly, did seem enough for an entire squad of Talon Company Mercs.

Charles shrugged, fiddling with the seal on the packet until it opened, "I like to be prepared," he responded glibly, popping one of the cigarettes into his mouth with shaking hands. As he rummaged about his various pouches for a lighter, the Lone Wanderer stated, "I went around from place to place and helped people." Withdrawing a square, steel lighter and flicking it on, the Vault Dweller light his cigarette, "I was looking for my dad, and figured he'd want me to help people along the way." He glanced back out over the water sorrowfully, taking in the darkness of the approaching shore, "I guess I just wanted to make him proud…" The last bit was whispered so softly that if Tobar heard it, the ferryman made no mention.

"Did you find him?"

"Yes."

"How'd it end?"

"Badly."

"My apologies," the mustachioed sailor responded sheepishly, a degree of sadness in his voice. "Is that why you came with me?" He was awfully perceptive for a simple trading ferryman, and the modest phrasing of the question disarmed much of Charles' hostility.

"In part," he took a long puff on the cigarette, letting the smoke drift lazily from his mouth. "In part it's something else…"

"Which is?" The boater probed, hoping beyond all hope that his mysterious fare would let something slip that suggested anything about his true intentions.

Gazing out at the alien shoreline, so very different from DC and anything he'd ever seen in his life, Charles simply stated, "I'm running away, and if I'm lucky enough I won't come back."

* * *

The abandoned boardwalk stared gloomily back at him. Color long faded from all the signs, litter of all kinds scattered about haphazardly, mostly Styrofoam containers blowing with the breeze. The entire area held a menacing stillness, while the whole island remained unnaturally quiet as Tobar brought the _Duchess Gambit_ in alongside the rickety old dock jutting out from a crumbling concrete guard wall.

The soggy wood groaned beneath his weight as Charles left the steamboat, both duffle bags slung across his shoulders. In his hands he held his faithful Chinese assault rifle, but judging by the complete lack of life anywhere in his field of vision he seemed unlikely to need it.

"I'll be here for a couple of days, friend," Tobar announced, taking an empty steamer trunk from his ship and depositing it on the moss-encrusted dock, maintaining his perpetual cheer despite the enveloping gloom of the island. "I have a shipment of punga fruit to pick up from one of the local tribes and want to find out if any of the treasure hunters from my previous trips want a ride back to the capital. So…" he paused, glancing about the abandoned boardwalk that made up the landing point, "If you change your mind about Point Lookout within a couple of days, come back here and I'll take you back home with me, as long as you've got the caps, of course." Tobar maintained his relentlessly chipper tone throughout the whole sentence, but Charles couldn't miss the hushed over reference to previous treasure hunters, who may not have survived…

"Thanks," Charles half muttered around the cigarette hanging limply from his mouth, glancing about the dreary local. The weather-beaten sign reading "Pilgrim's Landing," seemed so forlorn the Lone Wanderer couldn't help but feel a strange sense of sorrow at the area forgotten by time. Looming over the crumbling buildings and tattered flags was a rusty old Farris Wheel, cutting an ominous figure against the murky darkness of the falling sun.

With night fast approaching over his strange new home, Charles tried to glean anything useful from his guide. "What should a first timer know?" He inquired, attempting to keep his tone light.

As he was bringing a second trunk off the _Duchess Gambit_ the ferryman gave a slight smile, his mustache seeming to twitch with the gesture, "Don't drink swamp water," when his fare's expression suggested he was in the mood for mockery, Tobar changed his tune, "You're standing in Pilgrim's Landing, home to one person and one Protectron. If you head down the central pathway a few feet you'll find The House of Wares, run by my friend Panada, who gives me a few caps for referrals so be sure to mention me!" He chuckled, depositing the second empty trunk next to the first. "She should be able to answer any questions you've got left, I've not been back in a few months, and though the world left Point Lookout behind, there's a mini world of change among the trees and marsh." He paused cryptically, adjusting the trader's hat he wore over his mop of light brown hair, staring past the boardwalk into the marshes barely visible in the gathering darkness. "Watch out of the swampfolk and you'll be fine."

That perked the younger man's curiosity. "Swampfolk?" He asked slowly, following Tobar's gaze with his own. The marshes held an almost demonic appearance, the trees twisting about like grasping fingers, as if determined to gasp hold of the drifting former Vault Dweller and swallow him whole. For his purposes, the ominous swamp would do just fine.

"Didn't I mention something about monsters when I sold you a ticket?" The ferryman responded, far too glibly for Charles' comfort. When he expressed that displeasure to Tobar with a glance, the sailor clarified, "You've got your beasties, you've got a few tribes that don't like visitors but in between you've got the swamp folk. Lots of inbreeding, chems, radiation, moonshine and time resulted in something halfway animal, halfway man. They're cunning bastards, tough too, but that assault rifle there," he nodded at Charles' well maintained weapon approvingly, "Should show the buggers off if they bother you. Just stay out of the deepest swamps and you'll be fine."

Realizing that Tobar wasn't going to shed any more light on the subject of the swampfolk, or the rest of the island in general, Charles adjusted the straps on his duffle bags, spat out his dying cigarette and began walking forward. The caps in his pouch jingled together, and a drop of sweat worked its way from beneath the peak of his Vault-Tech baseball cap down his bearded face, plopping against the rotting wooden planks below. The air was stagnant and the humidity nearly unbearable. Resisting the urge to withdraw one of his water bottles and a dose of Rad-x with the greatest effort, the Lone Wander moved through the empty carnival streets, kicking discarded paper cups and tin cans aside as he did. He held the assault rifle ready, scanning shattered windows and boarded doors for any kind of threat, though after a few moments it seemed obvious no one was around, matching the ferryman's description.

Finding the House of Wares proved easy enough, as the general stillness surrounding Pilgrim's Landing increased the range of his ears exponentially, leading him towards the clanking sounds of the walking Protectron in excellent time. The robot moved back and forth in a patrol pattern around the area, though somewhat rusted by the marshy air it appeared to be regularly maintained and lovingly cared for.

The area had clearly once been a shooting gallery, judging by the faded bull's-eye above the stand, across which the crudely painted letters reading, "Madam Panada's House of Wares" had been written attested. A long wooden plank, buffed and clean and thus looking bizarrely out of place among the general filth of the ancient boardwalk, ran the length of the open space, behind which, rusty target ducks sat patiently for the BB gun to be fired, seeming unaware the world had abandoned them. The counter bent beneath the weight of assorted goods piled haphazardly upon it.

Behind that counter stood a surprisingly young, slight, woman was deeply tanned skin. Her hair was a black as Charles' own, cut short in a sidesweep style. What appeared to be homemade leather armor covered her petite frame and piercing blue eyes, far older than the surrounding face suggested, peered out sagely into the area beyond. The sight of this woman, sitting behind her counter, alone aside for her robot, in the ghost town was beyond surreal. She glanced towards him, seeming completely unsurprised by his arrival. "Hello Wanderer, I'm Madam Panada, and I knew you'd come."

Her accent was very thick, adding a degree of mystery to her words that shouldn't have otherwise existed. As he drew nearer to the woman he noted she herself was quite clean. "I'm sorry?" He asked, lowering the Chinese assault rifle and slinging it across his back, crisscrossing the two duffles he still wore.

"I foresaw your coming," she repeated cryptically, looking through him with her unflinching gaze. "The signs were right."

"Un-huh," Charles responded without much faith, moving towards the counter and leaning heavily against it, "Tobar told me you'd set up shop here, and that you'd answer my questions, so, will you?" He might have been a mess, no doubt about it, but this Panada seemed insane, so at least he had one up on her.

Even as he fiddled around in one of his pouches for his little sack of caps, the woman continued speaking, "It's not supplies you need, not really, but answers to questions I cannot give you." He stopped instantly, the packet of caps still in his hand.

"What?" He didn't like this, not at all. The idea this strange woman had managed a peak into his psyche was an unwelcome one. Had there been any other trader remotely close he knew about, he'd take his caps there. Yet this was a strange place to him, and he couldn't pass up the opportunity to gather the food, drink, med-x and ammunition he needed. Packing ones entire life into a few bags wasn't as easy as the stories made it seem and the month long trip had done a number on his supplies. So, he grudgingly began picking through the pile, trying to find what he needed.

"You're running away," she told him, something he figured she could gleam by the overstuffed duffle bags on his back. "You've been hurt so badly by the people you called family that you went to the farthest point you could find." She didn't bother commenting on her inventory, as a small pile of intended purchases piled up before her.

For his part, Charles wanted to get out of the conversation as quickly as possible; this strange woman with her bizarre intonation was getting far too close for comfort. He'd come to the island to avoid people, not have them crack through the wall he was trying to construct and peel away his soul like meat from a mirelark's shell. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, gathering every dose of med-X he could find in the woman's inventory and adding it to the stack of bullets and food. Cram, instamash or that local fruit Tobar called punga, if it was available, he wanted it, since the longer he could avoid a dependence on scavenging the happier he'd be.

"You don't believe me." It was no question, but rather a statement, strangely free of emotion, as if Panada really couldn't care less about his feelings. "You don't believe my visions."

"I don't," he growled, pulling over two large jugs of what a hearty sniff suggested was absolutely moonshine, and a filthy glass to drink it out of. His mental calculations suggested if he purchased the lot, affording another ticket back to the Capital Wasteland would prove impossible, unless he made some caps on the island. Suited him fine, the Lookout would be his home for the foreseeable future. If the desire to return to DC ever struck him, he was sure he'd manage to return.

"You will," Panada responded cryptically, slowly counting the objects in the pile of goods, her lips moving soundlessly as she determined total price.

As the store owner, and apparent fortune teller, continued her addition, Charles looked throughout the stock behind her absently, finding the task far more rewarding than listening to this woman drone on. Yet, for all the idleness he'd intended with the gesture, his eyes feel upon something that instantly caught his interest.

Sitting on one of the metal target ducks, covered in a healthy coating of dust, was a dull grey cap. Charles had excelled in his history classes back when he still lived in Vault 101 and recognized the design instantly, the crossed brass muskets giving it away beyond all doubt. The hat had clearly once adorned the head of a Confederate soldier back in the days of America's long ago Civil War and, for some strange reason, he found himself drawn to it. His Vault-Tech baseball cap was a reminder of who he was, what he'd been, who'd promised him something and abandoned him….

"Throw that Confederate hat in the pile too," he told Panada without further delay, he felt a connection to the object, a strange sense of loneliness he couldn't explain but emphasized with. Without objection, Panada took the grey cap down, dusted it off and added it to the rest of the man's purchases. Taking off his own cap, and storing it gingerly in one of his duffles, Charles took up the Confederate one and placed it on his head. It fit snugly, but otherwise seemed a fine addition to his apparel.

"127 caps," Panada announced, as if she'd pulled a completely random number out of nowhere rather than do proper mathematics. Still, it was her store and she had the right. Slamming down the required caps and realizing just how low that left him on potential funds, Charles swept his newly acquired goods into one of the bags. "Head up the road towards the Homestead Motel, there you will find sanctuary," the fortune-teller stated matter-of-factly, even as the Vault Dweller was turning around.

"Excuse me?" He said again, torn between his desire to be rid of Panada and her incessant murmurings, and to gleam useful information. Practicality stayed his feet and the Lone Wanderer remained to hear her next words.

"You seek shelter for this night, and many to come, yet you will wish to remain close to the shore, as you hope, deep down, someone will come for you." She pointed an unwavering finger past the moldy Farris wheel, towards a building on the outskirts of town, its form just barely visible in the sinking sun. "None remain within its walls but the dead, the roof is sturdy and doors thick. The motel will serve you well, I think."

"Uh, thank you?" Charles muttered by way of response. Taking up his Chinese assault rifle again, the Lone Wanderer began his trek towards the motel, eyes peel for unwanted wildlife.

He was just barely out of Panada's field of vision, but he swore her voice floated up after him, "No, thank you. What you must do will not come easy but, for all our sakes, must be done."

* * *

The Homestead motel seemed roughly in the same shape as the rest of Point Lookout's buildings, save Panada's well maintained House of Wares. It was a generally unremarkable building, moss having grown wherever it would cling, pools of stagnate water forming around the grounds. The shattered remains of a picket fence crumbled about the exterior walls, and a battered sign still managed to proudly claim "vacancies," something Charles imagined was far truer now than ever.

A pack of rabid dogs had stalked around the property upon his arrival, their lean, angry forms hardened by the inhospitable terrain of the island. The lone man may have appeared easy prey for the vicious predators, but after about half a clip and two dead dogs, the pack changed its mind and scattered, fleeing deeper into the swamp. After salvaging what meat he could from the fallen canines, Charles found himself free to explore the grounds.

The vast majority of rooms had been boarded up. Despite his best attempts to dislodge the various planks and rusted nails keeping them shut up, Charles couldn't make his way into any of them. Breaking the windows, even if they had not also been sealed with similar vigor, would have been pointless, as such damage would render the rooms indefensible.

With most rooms not an option, Charles moved cautiously about the property, examining each door in turn. To his delight, three of them were still unsealed, though each was locked. He could have taken his shotgun to the locks, which would have, again, rendered them impractical for defense, while confident he could jimmy them open with bobby pins, that would render a quick entrance or exit difficult. Besides, the Homestead's office was still open, and appearing relatively undamaged.

He'd rummaged through the office and managed to turn up not only three keys, for rooms 1D, 1G and 1K respectively, but an interesting variety of loot. The Nuka-cola vending machine still greedily held onto two bottles of the drink, which he happily took, a few caps were scavenged from the wastebasket and the first-aid kit was plundered for extra bandages, stimpacks and Rad-x. Perhaps, most interestingly, next to the registration desk, he'd found a well-maintained rifle. The weapon reminded him of Lincoln's Repeater, though far simpler in design, the weapon which sadly remained in Megaton. His desire to avoid depriving the Capital Wasteland of its history if he failed to return, which seemed likely, prompted the Vault Dweller to leave it behind, so he happily added the lever-action rifle found within the office to his already sizable arsenal.

Room 1G had been his first stop and already his instincts suggested it'd be the best place to set up camp. Aside from the lone skeleton, it was still clean and dry, with several counters and tables leaving him more than enough space to store supplies. As a happy addition, the terminal left behind was still functional. Though the account it contained of a pre-war Chinese spy seemed an interesting jaunt for another day, even a potentially lucrative one, the fact he'd be able to record some kind of journal please him.

Leaving the two duffle bags behind in the relative safety of 1G, he tried the other two rooms. 1D contained twice as many corpses, but, aside from a functional double-barrel shotgun and plenty of pre-war money, held little worth desiring. Slinging the shotgun over his shoulder and stuffing his pockets with bills knowing that, if nothing else, perhaps Panada would barter for them, Charles went to check on 1K.

What he'd found inside made him wish he'd remained ignorant.

The interior was blood-stained, numerous skeletons, some hacked to pieces, others crucified against the walls, scattered about, clearly having died in agony. A general aura of wrongness hung over the room, a sensation of evil so strong it was almost physical.

Determining the risk offset any potential harm, Charles wrapped one of the bandages around his mouth and went in. He wanted nothing from the cursed room, yet he couldn't leave it alone, not if he would call the complex home. Withdrawing one of the lighters held in a vest pouch, Charles began pouring the fluid freely about the area. After draining the small steel object, he dropped it to the floor and withdrew a second. Spilling most of its contents in the same way he had the first, Charles lit it and stepped out of the room.

He watched the fire blaze from outside for an hour, confident the general dampness of the surrounding region, and sturdy construction of the motel, would prevent the fire spreading to surrounding rooms. The unholy room went up in smoke and a satisfaction he hadn't felt in some time touched him. In the shadow of his minds eye, his father stood nearby, proud he'd put the souls of the victims to rest. Charles shook the image away and returned to 1G, the fire slowly dying out behind him.

So that's where he found himself, spreading his earthly possessions about a motel room on a far away island. He took the skeleton outside and buried it across the road from the dilapidated building, freeing up the bed for personal use. A quick whiff of the sheets proved they were rancid but remarkably free of mold and considering how he himself must smell, Charles determined he could use them.

Placing an overturned table upright, he spread his weapons across it, all loaded, for ease of access. It was a remarkable little armory, a Chinese assault rifle, combat shotgun, sniper rifle, the lever-action rifle he'd recovered from the motel office, a sidearm he'd taken from Wild Bill's corpse back at The Pitt, the baseball bat he'd carried since childhood and his trench knife, along with several grenades. Medical supplies, food and knick-knacks filled the motel room's bookshelf, his Vault-Tech ball cap, the vault suit he'd been given by her among those objects….

Ignoring the pains staring at that suit brought, Charles went about his business shoring up the room, preparing for whatever may come. Taking the double barrel shotgun he'd acquired from room 1D, Charles set it up on a nightstand, barrels pointing directly towards the entrance. Using a line of fishing wire from one of his bags, the Vault Dweller made a crude pulley, connecting the doorknob to the weapon's trigger. If someone burst in unexpectedly during the night they'd meet an unpleasant surprise.

Confident in his work, the Lone Wanderer went back towards his gathered supplies. His arm was itching furiously, as if the skin were burning, his entire body now sweating and shaking. Withdrawing one of his precious doses of Med-x, Charles greedily took the chem, feeling its numbing power wash over his body in a haze of glorious relief. Breathing a sigh of deep comfort, the man took up a bottle of moonshine, determined to see exactly what the local brewers were capable of. His first real whiff proved unpleasant, an almost faintly sulfuric scent seemed to emanate from the liquid, a deep muddy brown in color reminding him in shade of the local punga fruit.

Still, anything was better than nothing at this stage of withdrawal, so Charles held the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. As he'd expected, the moonshine's taste was potent, and somehow acidic. Fruity undertones sang throughout the brew, mixed with a bready aftertaste; however, he was sure he could grow to tolerate the drink.

His body properly numbed to the world, Charles determined the time for sleep had come, it had been a busy day. Pulling off his vest and shirt, depositing them on the floor next to his new bed and hanging his hat on a bedpost, he took one last possession out of his now nearly empty duffle bags. The tattered old teddy bear had been a constant companion, and no amount of ridicule would ever make him give up little Theodore. The sight of the little bear was overwhelming comforting, despite everything stewing about in his heart.

Pulling the stinking comforter up to his chin, and holding Theodore tight against his chest, the man drifted off to a light sleep, mind assaulted by dreams, the outdoor noises of Point Lookout seeming to increase as darkness fell over the island.

It wasn't home, but maybe, just maybe, it could become one.

* * *

 **AN: So I'm trying something longer than a oneshot but far shorter than MOTM, I'm hoping it'll prove an interesting journey as Charles, faces inner and outer demons and someone tries to track him down. I hope I intrigued you enough in this first chapter that you'll stick around for more.**


	2. The Covered Bridge

_The pistol fired, sounding like a thunderclap despite the thickness of the emergency bulkhead. It was only a single shot, but that was enough. Janice collapsed, hitting the floor and bleeding profusely as Madison Li screamed in horror, crying loudly at the sudden loss of her friend. Dad stood frozen, his normally cheery face locked in an expression of horror._

 _Charles threw himself against the glass, assaulting it with fists and feet as he tried to reach his father. The man with the trenchcoat who'd sealed himself in with Dad, and callously shot Janice, didn't even glance towards the noise as if the youth didn't even exist._

 _"I suggest you comply immediately sir, in order to prevent further incidents," the man with the pistol stated casually, smoke still gently rising from the barrel. The whole scene felt surreal, like a nightmare he couldn't wake from._

 _Everything had been going so well, he'd managed to find Dad, get the science team back together and secure the purifier deep within the Jefferson Memorial. Maybe, just maybe, he'd get to help do something worthwhile by bringing clean water to the people of the Wasteland._

 _Dad told him he was proud of him. That simple sentence meant the world to Charles. And yet there were still so many questions, so much he wanted to do with and ask his father. He still wasn't clear why Dad had left without telling him, why he'd sacrificed so much for this project. Charles still felt hurt, abandoned. But he loved his father, and knew, through working alongside him; perhaps their relationship could be mended. Maybe he could make Dad happy._

 _But the Enclave had arrived, and everything fell apart._

 _Dogmeat scratched at the glass, trying to dig his was through the solid bulkhead with nothing more than his front paws. Charon moved down a few meters from the Lone Wanderer, aimed his shotgun and fired point-blank. Yet not even the shells from the Ghoul's powerful weapon broke through the bulkhead. Charles had seen the shot and, deep down, knew he wasn't going to break the glass with his hands if the shotgun hadn't even scratched it. Yet animal instinct drove him on as he attacked the bulkhead, determined to do something to help his father._

 _"Are we clear?" The man asked without sparing a glance towards the woman whose life he'd so casually ended. Beside him, the two Enclave soldiers aimed their plasma rifles threateningly at Dad, in case he somehow didn't realize the gravity of his situation._

 _"Yes, colonel," Dad ground out grudgingly, sounding like he very much wanted to strangle the colonel, rather than follow instructions. "I will do whatever you want, there's no need for more violence." Though the tone was neither begging nor groveling it was clear Dad was willing to do whatever necessary to preserve the lives of the remaining scientists under his care. Li remained a blubbering mess, huddled on the floor and sobbing, gazing at the fallen form of her protégé, dead on the floor, with horrified disbelief._

 _The Colonel, it seemed, was more than happy to abuse that protective desire. "Then you will immediately hand over all materials related to this project and aid us in making it operational, at once." The man slipped his 10 millimeter back into its holster, clearly confident in his position. With a solid bulkhead between him and Charles and two power-armored soldiers at his back, it did seem quite a strong one._

 _"Dad?" Charles managed to sob out, pounding his hands against the glass, feeling the blood starting to down his arms after he'd somehow cut himself. Dad didn't look at him, instead keeping his gaze focused on the Colonel._

 _"Very well," dad stated plainly. "Give me a few moments to bring the system online." Charles' father turned about resignedly, moving towards the large control panel in the chamber's center. Dogmeat's scratching grew more intense, as if he sensed something Charles could not._

 _Dad hunched over the panel and punched a few buttons, his actions hidden from his anxious son. Evidently he wasn't moving fast enough however, as the man in the coat growled out, "Enough of these delays!" His gloved hand dropped to the sidearm at his waist and for a panic-stricken moment, Charles feared his father was about to be shot._

 _"Just a few moments," the former doctor of 101 responded as casually as he could, eyes fixed on the consol rather than any of the men with guns. There was a moment of deathly quiet with anticipation for what would come._

 _Yet nothing could have prepared the kid from Vault 101 for what occurred._

 _Suddenly there was an explosion within the chamber, several pipes rupturing and computer screens bursting. An alarm started screaming out a warning that radiation levels were climbing far beyond safety restrictions. The four figures on the other side of the glass began convulsing in pain, the two soldiers falling with gurgling cries of agony._

 _Now it was Charles' turn to cry. "DAD!" He screamed, throwing himself as hard as he could against the glass, throat already raw from shouting, "HANG ON DAD I'M COMING!" Tears ran freely down his face as he sobbed, pounding his fists against the impenetrable barrier._

 _His father managed to hobble over to the bulkhead, even as the Colonel collapsed behind him. Dad placed his hand against the glass, trying impossibly to grab those belonging to his only son. Face warped in pain, he managed to cough out, "I love you, Charles. Now run… Run!" His face contorted one last time and he collapsed, hand sliding down the bulkhead as he fell to the floor._

 _Dogmeat howled in grief, going into a frenzy of scratching and biting the bulkhead, trying to save the old man who'd always had a treat ready for him. Charles was in a state of shock. "Daddy," he whispered, tears flowing silently down his face. He'd stopped punching, unable to grasp the sight of his father lying dead on the cold metal floor, "Daddy, don't leave me alone…" He added, face and bloody hands pressed against the glass._

 _James didn't rise. "DAD!" Charles screamed, realization finally hitting him square in the face._

 _He felt a rough hand grab his shoulder, "Come on boss!" Charon growled, pulling the horrified Lone Wanderer away from the sight. "There's nothing we can do for him! We've got to get out of here!" Charles let the Ghoul drag him away, even as loud screaming sobs wracked his lungs and echoed throughout the vast empty spaces of the Jefferson Memorial._

* * *

Charles awoke with a start, upper body caked in sweat, eyes damp from tears as he gasped air into his battered lungs. It was all so real, the memories flooding back with perfect clarity.

Rolling out of bed in a state of panic, the man fell to the floor, body tangled in the filthy comforter. Despite jarring his elbow on impact, the sharp pain did nothing to slow his panicked flailing. He wasn't supposed to remember, he wasn't, not that.

It was pitch black in the motel room as Charles fumbled about, trying to find what he needed. His fingers managed to locate a jug-shaped object in the darkness, and knowing only two objects in his possession were jugs and both contained the same contents, he greedily snatched it up. Pulling the cork out and releasing the foul smelling concoction, Charles drank deeply. Before he realized what he was doing the bottle was empty, every trace of moonshine entering his stomach. His vision began to blur and yet still, it wasn't enough. He could still see Dad's face staring at him, his hand separated by nothing but glass…

Moving towards the table where he was sure he'd left a few doses, his struggle was rewarded when hands fell upon a syringe. Jabbing his arm without delay, the cool rush of Med-x working its way through his system calmed his nerves tremendously. Yet, even that powerful numbing sensation, as the pain-killer did its work, wasn't enough, what he really needed was air.

Thankfully, despite the bottle of moonshine, Med-x and emotional distress from his nightmare, Charles maintained enough of his faculties to disable the jury-rigged shotgun before he tried his hand at the knob. The door fumbled but didn't open, his semi-conscious state, struggling to recall why. Finally, remembering he'd, of course, locked the door, Charles managed despite the tremendous shaking of his hands, to fit the key into the lock and turn it.

The swamp air rushed into his room with full force as he flung the door aside, remarkably cool without the beating of the sun, tickling every inch of sweating skin exposed by his lack of shirt. Gulping the air into his battered lungs ferociously, Charles managed to make it a few steps out the door before he collapsed into the muck on hands and knees.

Mud squished around his fingers, dirt worming its way into the knees of his pants as his body dry heaved, exhausted and battered. He could still see it, hear it, he could somehow even smell it. That foul odor of leaking radiation and fried circuitry permeating the area beyond the bulkhead, that stench worse than all the foul smells of the bog combined…

After resting in the mud for what could have been hours, or minutes, he couldn't say, Charles gathered enough strength to force himself onto his knees. He knelt, both knees in the squalor, dirty hands resting on his thighs, naked from the waist up and unarmed. It wasn't a particularly good situation to be in and part of him certainly recognized that. And yet, despite natural instincts and his intentions for self preservation, he couldn't move, couldn't find the strength to return to the safety of his motel room and locked door. So he sat, alone, until his senses suggested otherwise.

It may have just been the moonshine or chems, but something told the battered man he wasn't alone, survivalist instinct honed by ferals, Super Mutants and slavers beyond the ability of any teacher. That sense of warning triggered, Charles began to slowly glance about, eyes unsure of what they might see. If he wasn't imagining things, and truthfully he was quite certain it was merely battered nerves, he didn't want to make any sudden moves and alert any strange entities to his prescience.

The area surrounding the motel was remarkably clear. Pilgrim's Landing, with its dilapidated buildings and Farris Wheel, filled an entire field of view, but seemed to hold no figures. The remaining land was pitted with small swamps along with natural rises and dips in the land. Several small patches of gnarled trees or rocky outcroppings occupied some space but overall he had a fairly good view of the surrounding area. Despite the strange sensation in the pit of his stomach and the prickling of his scalp, Charles couldn't see anyone who might pose threat or harm. In fact, he didn't see anyone at all.

The tiny gleaming lights off in the distance couldn't be real, they couldn't really exist. They were mere figments of his imagination, a lingering reminder of the plasma rifles he'd seen the day his father died, the chems were playing off a memory he'd only just struggled through, and nothing more.

Finally, exhaustion proved too much for the Lone Wanderer. Fully confident there was nothing more than imagination playing tricks on his battered faculties, Charles crawled, body entirely drained of energy, back into 1G, collapsing on the floor. He only just managed to tap the door closed with his foot, feeling immense comfort as the click of the lock sounded, sealing him in.

Then sleep overtook him.

* * *

"Where is he?" Riley asked Donavan for the third time in the past ten minutes, hands folded behind her back, combat boots threatening to beat a groove into the floor of the Ranger compound due to her constant pacing.

"Coming," Donavan repeated, still not bothering to pull his head out of the electrical panel he'd peeled open. The glow from his shoulder-mounted flashlight reflected outward, casting his armored shadow eerily across the opposing wall. The techie had taken the loss of power in the compound as he did every technical issue, with a slight grunt of frustration, followed by a journey to his toolbox.

Though Donavan wasn't the best listener when it came to Riley's concerns, particularly while things needed repair, he was two steps above the other Rangers. Butcher had suggested she take a sedative, relax, and wait it out. Brick, on the other hand, had stated rather casually, "Riley, you're the boss and all, but if you don't stop moping in here, I'm going to shoot you." Not wanting to test how legitimate that threat was, Riley moved down the hallway to pace around Donavan.

"It isn't like Chuck to be late, and never twice." Riley pointed out, her brilliant orange hair pulled back into a messy bun, face free of grime due to a quick visit to the sink. As far as Riley was concerned, she'd done everything in her power to look nice, and was hoping a certain Vault Dweller would notice her efforts. Sure he was a hell of a lot younger than her, no one was debating that, and she wasn't even sure what it was she felt when she thought about him. But she was absolutely certain she wanted to look her best when the handsome, bearded face appeared down the hallway, arrival long foretold by the happy barking of a dog.

It was the same bearded face she'd seen when she'd first woken up in Underworld, from a coma she, looking back, was shocked to have survived. It was a kindly face, black hair tucked beneath a Baseball cap, well maintained beard covering an expression of concern, shared only by the Ghoul in the doctor's clothing, Burrows, she later discovered. He'd helped her stand, taking her arm in his rough hands and gently pulling her to her feet.

He hadn't known her from the rest of the Wasteland and yet, when she begged him to help her team, the closest thing she'd ever had to family, he'd done so without hesitation. Charles, or Chuck as she preferred, hadn't even asked for caps, he'd just gone, murmuring something about "trying to make DC a better place."

He'd returned her people to the compound, all unharmed save a few cuts, bruises or the odd broken bone, nothing a stimpack couldn't fix. Beyond that, he'd even agreed to help with the Wasteland mapping project, agreeing to pop back in every so often with new information in exchange for plenty of caps.

What Riley hadn't expected, was how often he'd returned to Ranger Compound after receiving his honorary membership and armor, and how much she longed for those visits. Chuck was a very punctual man, arriving every two weeks without fail, usually accompanied by Charon, the massive Ghoul bodyguard who said very little and yet somehow never failed to elicit a chuckle from Butcher, and Dogmeat, his always happy canine companion who never passed an opportunity to shower Riley with slobbery doggy kisses.

Riley made small talk with Charles each time, turning simple paydays into meetings lasting hours. On several occasions he actually slept in the compound, setting out the following morning. That was far from unusual, the Capital Wasteland was treacherous, dangerous and even a simple journey was potentially life ending.

Riley had grown incredibly fond of Chuck, his quick wit, kind heart, twinkling eyes, charming smile…

Then, two weeks ago, he missed his meeting. Butcher reminded her that Super Mutant activity was extra intense in the area and likely the trip was beyond realistic safety. Donavan pointed out that Charles had said something about getting close to his Dad that last time he'd been in the compound and maybe he'd gotten caught up in working with James.

They'd all been good enough reasons and Three Dog didn't mention any harm befalling the Kid from 101, and Riley was certain if something had happened, Three Dog would have known. So, she accepted the advice of the Rangers and let it go.

Now he was due for another visit but again, hadn't made it. None of his faint whistling, none of Dogmeat's barking, nothing and Riley slowly realized that the sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach was genuine worry. He'd been there for her when she needed it, even when they were strangers and she was nothing but a risk, now it was time to return the favor.

"Donavan, are you even listening?" Riley repeated, growing slowly more flustered at the seeming apathy towards Charles' potential danger. He'd kept his head inside the panel, a steady stream of grumbled mutterings and muffled curses filtering outward without any signs of slowing.

"Ah, ha!" He announced suddenly, completely ignoring what she'd just said. Suddenly, the lights flashed back on throughout Ranger Compound, accompanied by the gentle humming of air vents suggesting they'd likewise returned to life. Crawling outward, Donavan pumped his fist while throwing his wrench to the floor triumphantly. "A few couplings were loose; probably some radroach crawling around back there jarred 'em."

Riley was too preoccupied to appreciate Donavan's success, "What if he needs us? What if he's dead in some ditch and no one knows about it?" Worrying did no good, it was pointless and she knew that. Yet, Riley was a woman of action and that's the way she liked it. This lack of knowledge, and inability to do anything to change it, drove her up the wall. She wanted to take the fight to an enemy, Infiltrator in hand, throwing grenades and cursing, not pacing about the bunker waiting for her…friend, to show up.

Seeming to realize the real distress in his leader's mind, Donavan spoke in a calm, soothing voice, "Riley, look, he's a big boy," the techie stressed, turning off his shoulder mounted flashlight. "He's got Dogmeat with him, and that damned massive Ghoul who never smiles. He'll be fine." He gripped Riley's shoulder tightly, "Ask yourself, do you really think that Charles, the Lone Wanderer from 101, who I watched mow down all those Super Mutants back at Statesman practically single-handed, is going to die out there?"

"I just want to know…" Riley mumbled, too exhausted and worried to be angry. She glanced down at the floor, kicking at an empty pork and beans can that someone, likely Brick, had left there.

"Tell you what," Donavan responded simply, strengthening his grip on Riley's shoulder with a calloused hand. His grip was warm, almost fatherly, something Riley found strange considering their similar ages, "If he's not here by tomorrow and we haven't heard anything, I'll take you to Megaton. There's bound to be someone there who knows what happened." The techie laughed brightly, eyes twinkling, "Why, after spending all that time at our place, I'm sure he'll be happy to host us for once!"

Riley mumbled something that sounded vaguely like an affirmative, but nothing could shake the feeling of worry that she felt deep in her soul for the kid from 101 with the sparkling eyes. And so, despite Donavan's protests, Riley continued her pacing before the radio, listening with strange apprehension every time a certain disc jockey came on the air, listening for any mention of Charles.

 _We're coming for you, just hold on Chuck, wherever you are._

* * *

It was on the covered bridge where he almost died.

Charles woke up on the floor of his newly acquired home base, considering himself lucky to still be alive and unharmed after the previous evening's debacle. After dressing himself and pulling the Confederate cap tightly over his head, the man helped himself to a bottle of Nuka-Cola, still refreshingly crisp, and a box of instamash. It wasn't the healthiest choice, but it was likely better for his body than chems and booze and health concerns hadn't stopped him there.

A quick examination of his supplies revealed a simple unpleasant truth; he was going through alcohol and Med-x far too quickly, especially considering his greatly depleted stash of caps. If he was going to continue feeding his cravings, he'd need to acquire more of both, preferably before he became so incapacitated by withdrawal that he ceased to properly function. So, after shooting up again and taking a much more conservative drink from the remaining bottle of moonshine, Charles picked up his assault rifle, trench knife and pistol and left the motel room to explore the surrounding marshes.

The area had returned to the smothering humidity he remembered from the previous day, large bloatflies drifting lazily about in swamp fumes, too lethargic to attack him. A constant peaty odor was everywhere, weighing on his shoulders almost as heavily as the murky air.

With Pilgrim's Landing seeming a far easier endeavor for exploration, better reserved for a day when he couldn't function as well as he currently felt, Charles decided to go out into the island proper. Picking the remains of a dirt path that seemed slightly less overgrown than the others, the Vault Dweller set out.

The muck beneath his boots squished loudly with each step, releasing a foul smelling odor as he moved. Already, sweat was dripping down his forehead, nose itching fiercely, the slow, scratching sensation of need creeping inward. Still, Charles walked on.

For all of Tobar's talk of wild monsters and swampfolk, Point Lookout seemed entirely abandoned. Nothing leaped out from the marsh, nothing called for his blood and, worst of all, nothing glimmered in the light with the shine of promised wealth. He wasn't likely to get rich on the island, but judging from the conditions, he might get malaria.

The rickety old covered bridge seemed a fine landmark, the marshy creek running beneath far too shallow to cause serious harm if the bridge broke dumping him into the water. Yet, as he drew closer, the sturdiness and general maintenance of the bridge's construction stood out. This wasn't an abandoned old thing, like the buildings at Pilgrim's Landing, someone kept the bridge regularly maintained.

Despite a sinking suspicion that he should treat the area with caution, a combination of curiosity and need drove him onward. He wasn't crouching, but he certainly wasn't sprinting as fast as his legs would carry him. Scanning the horizon as best he could, visibility greatly reduced from a combination of mist, swamp gasses and twisted trees growing haphazardly wherever their roots would allow, Charles made his way onto the bridge.

Though the wooden planks groaned beneath him, each step felt confident, the bridge neither bending nor breaking. Directly in the center of the bridge, someone had set up a fishing spot, complete with small table, chair, tackle box and fishing pole, though what they were intended to catch within the irradiated waters Charles couldn't be sure. What appeared to be a cigar still gently smoking, rested on the table beside the tackle box, suggesting it had only just been abandoned. Curiosity now entirely aroused, the Vault Dweller made his way towards the set up. Sure enough, as he drew close, he noticed the line was still in the murky river below, as if the occupant had made only a temporary exit, fully intent on returning. He was so caught up in picturing the rod's owner that he nearly missed the figure on the other side of the bridge.

It was just out of the corner of his eye, the figure so inhuman it almost didn't register as existing within Charles' mind. It was undoubtedly male, and clearly had once been human, and maybe still was in the vaguest sense. The scrawny creature wore no shirt, face horrifically deformed, with bulging eyes, buck-teeth and pale skin, entire shape so twisted and malignant looking Charles felt a chill run down his spine at the appearance. A tattered pair of once blue jeans mercifully protected the creature's dignity, while it held a rusty hunting rifle, seeming more duct tape than weapon at this stage.

 _What was it Tobar said, radiation, time and inbreeding?_

His heightened survival senses kicked in and Charles dived toward to the ground, Confederate hat falling from his head as he did. The swampfolk, which the Lone Wanderer guessed confidently was what the creature was, had raised the rifle and fired.

Even as his body slammed into the wood below, driving the wind from his lungs as spare clips punched his chest, the bullet whizzed overhead, splintering a support beam right where his head had been.

The drive continued, with Charles rolling over to the side of the bridge, flipping the table as he did to provide some modicum of cover. A second shot punched through the bridge's "floor" a mere instant after he moved, the twisted being already preparing a third shot. "Gool-dang!" It squealed in a hideous nasally voice, "We're eating good tonight!"

"Not if I can help it," Charles growled, bracing his Chinese assault rifle on the fallen table. Intending more to keep the swampfolk from firing again than actually dropping him, Charles held the trigger, spraying a burst of rifle fire towards the thing. Luck must have been with him because a handful of bullets managed to strike the creature in his left leg, blood spraying outward as the limb collapsed. The swampfolk fell with an ear-bursting shriek of pain, hunting rifle flying from its hands. Charles rose from his prone position to deliver the kill-shot when, from out of nowhere, he was struck in the side. Brilliant pain exploded along his ribcage, the force of the physical blow actually launching him across the bridge, slamming him against the low wall before he fell to the floor again.

Something definitely felt broken, yet through gritted teeth he scrambled towards his rifle, knowing if he didn't act quickly he'd have a lot worse to deal with than a few ribs. Grunting at the sharp pain erupting along his side during his sporadic movement Charles managed to grab the handle of his assault rifle without incident. A quick glance upward revealed what had struck him, though after looking, wished he'd remained ignorant.

A solidly built swampfolk towered over him, a cedar baseball bat clutched in both hands. The undoubtedly male figure wore blue overalls nearly bursting from a combination of fat, bulbous tumors and what seemed a surprising amount of muscle. His face was hideously deformed, neck a mess of growth and tumors. An expression of wicked glee further twisted already horrifying features, near animal eyes looking down hungrily at Charles.

Somehow, despite the clumsy appearance of the second swampfolk, he'd managed to clamber over the bridge and make it behind Charles without alerting him. Even though the Lone Wanderer's attention had been focused on the gun-bearing enemy, he should have heard the bat wielder coming. If he survived, the Vault Dweller vowed to never underestimate the stealth capacity of these creatures again.

With a squeal more animal than man, the swampfolk swung the bat two-handed overhead, bringing it crashing down on the prone form of his opponent. Charles just managed to scoot backward in time, bat splintering planks where his personal bits had only just been.

A combination of panic and relief at having come so close to one injury he doubted a stimpack would fix prompted Charles to take serious action. Still sitting, he pointed the Chinese assault rifle up at his foe, barrel nearly touching the enlarged stomach. With a cry of rage, the Lone Wanderer held down the trigger, weapon spitting bullets like a fountain.

At point blank range the effect was deadly. The remaining bullets ripping the swampfolk's stomach apart in a gruesome display of killing power. Charles only just managing to escape the resulting wave of gore by sliding down the bridge as the creature collapse. The heavy body struck the already weakened side wall, cracking it further, though the stubbornly constructed bridge still managed to stop the swampfolk's corpse from tumbling into the creek below.

Fishing for replacement clip off his belt, the Lone Wanderer stood, attempting to reload the spent assault weapon. But, once again, he wasn't out of danger. A shot rang out and flaming pain burst in his right thigh. Charles screamed in pain, stumbling backward as the bullet struck him. Through the hazy field of vision, he saw two more swampfolk coming up the dirt patch behind him, one wearing overalls like the bat wielder and the other dressed only in blue jeans.

Overalls held a lever action rifle, the barrel still smoking from recent use, his shirtless cousin favoring a double barrel shotgun. Charles tried to react to their arrival, but it had been so sudden he found himself in a daze. The replacement clip still in hand, the Lone Wanderer attempted to find cover, but his wound hampered progress significantly.

With a maniacal grin and the scream of, "Die outsider!" Overalls hammered the rifle's lever, took aim and fired again. The second bullet hit Charles dead in the shoulder, bone near bursting from impact.

In the wave of blood and pain, Charles wasn't sure if it was the force of the shot, or merely his own maniacal stumbling, but something drove him backwards. The already weakened short wall didn't hold and, with a deafening crack, shattered, dumping the wounded Vault Dweller into the muddy creak below.

The impact was hard, driving the wind from his body, as rocks and logs battered his already wounded form further jostling the bullet-wounds. Only the slimy chill of the river water kept him awake, his blood flowing away with the stream.

 _Maybe it was meant to be like this…_

The boom of a shotgun jostled him back to reality, though, for the life of him, he wasn't sure what the swampfolk was hoping to hit. The survivalist instinct that had brought him through so many trials already kicked in, and Charles, despite ever emotion in his body, refused to lie down and die.

Moving up to a crouch, the Lone Wanderer slid further beneath the badly damaged bridge, trying to buy precious time to reload his assault rifle…

 _Crap. Where the hell's my rifle?_

A sinking realization loomed over him like an angry Deathclaw. His rifle had slipped from his hands during the fall, it was lying on the bridge, empty, and out of reach. To go after it would expose him to the swampfolk, who'd already proven their lethality with firearms, but without it…

Fortunately, Wild Bill's sidearm was still resting in its holster, the Brahmin leather keeping it remarkably dry despite the surrounding water. Yanking the pistol free, Charles held it in a shaking hand, while fidgeting around in his pouches for a stimpack, Med-x, or anything at all to numb the pain.

He could hear several more shots, as the swampfolk seemed content to blast away at the bridge despite lacking any targets. Sadly, all the jaunt through his pouches managed to turn up was a roll of gauze, recovered from a medical kit left in the motel bathroom. Shoving the gauze roughly into the bullet hole in his shoulder to slow the bleeding, Charles brought the pistol up to his cheek, barrel ice-cold, and waited.

One way or another, it'd all be over soon.

* * *

 **AN: Thank you those who favorited, subscribed and reviewed the last chapter. Your enthusiasm gives me strength! Until next we meet.**


	3. Moonshiner

The hardest part about waiting, Charles determine, was keeping his breathing in check. Pain ran rampant throughout his entire body, with his side, bizarrely enough, hurting the most, though he was certain the moldy swamp water slowly festering within the leg wound would really start to sting soon enough.

His teeth were almost ground to dust he kept them clenched so tightly, pistol barrel wavering in shaky hands. He desperately needed a stimpak, and for once he could say with complete honesty, his desire for Med-x had nothing to do with addiction. He'd give anything to numb the flaming pain occupying every inch of his body.

Charles had his back pressed against the portion of the bridge where swampy landmass met man-made construction, nearest to the two swampfolk, though neither had made any attempt to move closer even as their shooting ceased.

 _Maybe they've left…_

As if to crush that faint glimmer of hope, he heard the sound of heavy footsteps, slowly, but surely, drawing closer to the bridge. There were two sets, and he could picture the deformed faces of his would-be killers, hideous grins no doubt splitting their lips with maniacal glee at his predicament. He was the trapped creature, about to become dinner for a tribe of inbreds.

Tapping the barrel of Wild Bill's sidearm against his forehead to chase away all internal doubts, Charles vowed that he wouldn't be taken without a fight, this prey had claws.

Yet, claws or no, if he didn't ensure his next few moves were made with the utmost care, he'd die. His revolver held five rounds with no possibility he'd be able to reload before they killed him. There were two of them for one thing, both their weapons having plenty of range on him and, as the pain in leg and shoulder was all too happy to testify, at least one of the two inbred hicks could shoot. If he could use his knife…

The stomping of heavy feet grew closer still, the labored, wheezing breaths of necks bloated with tumors practically a beacon that shouted the location of his assailants. They were moving cautiously, staying on the ground and approaching the river itself rather than the bridge. It seemed despite outward appearances, the swampfolk were smart enough to realize moving onto the bridge would give him more space for an ambush. With nothing but open ground his cover was significantly reduced.

Charles grit his teeth tighter, and continued his panicked waiting. The creatures continued to draw closer, no doubt knowing they'd wounded him, perhaps assuming the fall, short though it had been, had been enough to finish him off, but far too cagey to trust to luck.

His mind whirled with turmoil, knowing that, despite everything he'd been through, all he'd learned and experienced, it all came down to this moment. He could die, that wasn't a new revelation yet somehow, blood leaking from his body, assault rifle and hat lying on the bridge waiting from him to return, if felt more real than ever. Yet still, despite all his introspection, he remained crouching in the slowly festering waters of the creek.

Finally, the moment of truth came and with a mighty roar that would have made any Super Mutant butcher jealous, Charles rose like a furious titan, adrenaline numbing his body to the pain of his wounds. He charged towards the swampfolk, pistol pointed forward, finger squeezing the trigger as fast as it could…

* * *

 _"Come on son," Dad said in his most relaxing voice to the admittedly nervous fourteen year old before him, "Just focus on the question. I know you know this." His graying brow furrowed into a concentrated stare, as if Charles could absorb the information needed through visuals alone._

 _"The medicine prescribed to best cure pneumonia is taken through the mouth…and…and…" The teen hesitated, flustered as he struggled to recall something his father had told him not so long ago. But the name of the medication kept slipping away, his brain cloudy with thoughts of baseball and comics and…well..her._

 _"I can't do it, dad!" Charles snapped, throwing his hands up in frustration, his outburst shook a few test tubes and scattered several charts concerning the health of various Vault 101 residents but completely unaffected his stoic father. From the other side of the table, Dad sat, calm and still, across from his son, the medical ward a common sight for Charles these days. Dad was always trying to drill something into his son's mind, insisting that, "it never hurt to have a little knowledge."_

 _"Yes you can, Charles," James responded, face holding a comforting gesture, "You know more than you think you do, just concentrate."_

 _"The medicine you prescribe, administered orally… is…" The teen snapped his fingers, information rushing back to him like a wave. "Amoxycillin! You prescribe Amoxycillin!"_

 _James slapped the table heartily, a smile breaking through his bearded face, "Yes! That's exactly right! Oh well done, son. I'm so proud." Reaching across the table, James ruffled his son's hair, beaming from ear to ear. "You've earned yourself a break, come back in a few hours and I'll have a new test for you."_

 _Without having to be told twice, Charles pushed himself up from the table, beaming a smile of his own before leaving the infirmary practically skipping down the hall. Dad was proud… Actually proud._

 _"Well isn't someone happy today." The perky, female voice he knew all too well echoed down the hallway after him. Charles turned to see Amata where she always was, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, waiting for him to finish his private lessons. "You did well?"_

 _"Charles nodded, "I thought he had me there, but I managed well enough." He couldn't help but inflect more than a touch of pride into his voice, crossing his arms in a gesture suggesting authority. "You should bow before my clearly superior mind."_

 _Amata snorted and crinkled her nose, clearly not finding Charles all that advanced. "I just don't know why your dad has you take all these tests. The GOAT isn't for another two years."_

 _Charles shrugged, "Just wants me to be prepared for anything, I guess."_

 _"Can't argue with that." The young woman left her position against the wall, swatting her friend gently across the back of the head, "So genius, what do you want to do with all your free time? I've got some ideas."_

 _"Amata," Charles responded, completely honest, "As long as you're there, I'm happy."_

* * *

The spirit of Wild Bill must have been with him in that moment for, upon Charles' command, the pistol sang its deadly song with pride. All five rounds burst from the chambers in rapid succession, three in the direction of Overalls and two towards his cousin in the jeans.

Before Overalls could aim his rifle all three bullets struck his face, slicing through deformities and tumors in a spray of blood and brains. The swampfolk fell backward, gurgling and chocking on his blood, dying in the muck beneath Charles' feet.

The second swampfolk took aim with his double-barrel shotgun but was forced to squirm aside to avoid being struck by the two rounds sent his direction. Charles rushed him, pulling the trigger fruitlessly, the only reward for the action a metallic clicking of hammer on empty chamber.

The inbred monster was realigning the weapon; at this range the Lone Wanderer wouldn't survive the blast. He had too far to move before the trench knife would be effective, panicked desperation drove his actions as he fought overwhelming pain.

Winding up his arm, Charles threw the pistol with all his strength, yanking the trench knife free as he moved. The metallic object struck the shotgun, pushing it backward as the swampfolk pulled the trigger. Both barrels discharged, sending their shot harmlessly into the swamp.

Charles crossed the last few steps in what seemed slow motion. With his uninjured arm, the Lone Wanderer's hand shot out, grabbing the swampfolk by the throat. The creature's skin felt clammy and sickly, pus oozing from several open sores. The scrawny beast's eyes went wide as it realized what has about to happen.

Killer instinct drove the kid from Vault 101. The knife flew forward and back as Charles stabbed the creature in the stomach repeatedly, shoving it backward as he drove the blade deeper. The swampfolk struggled, coughing blood into the face of his killer, growing weaker with each strike. With one final blow, Charles sank the blade up to its knuckleguard in the malnourished stomach of his opponent. Pulling the knife upward, Charles didn't halt until the razor-sharp edge of his weapon severed heart and lungs.

Eyes rolling back up into his head, the swampfolk collapsed, blood spurting upward like a geyser before the twisted thing expired. Charles stood, bloody dagger in his hand, gasping air into battered lungs. His leg burned, the pain of the bullet wound refusing to abate, made all the worse by burst of activity that had powered him into hand-to-hand with the hicks. His shoulder was worse, a combination of damaged bone, bullet fragments and blood-stained gauze only causing intense irritation. After wiping his trench knife clean on an old rag he kept for that exact purpose, Charles returned the steel weapon to its place on his belt, bending down to retrieve his fallen sidearm.

"Thanks again, Wild Bill," the Vault Dweller whispered, offering up his gratitude yet again to the fallen Pitt slave, who's weapon had saved his sorry hide on more than one occasion. With precision bordering on reverence, Charles snapped the pistol open, slipped a fresh bullet into each chamber and closed it before placing the sidearm back in its Brahmin-hide holster.

By now, the pain had become unbearable, notably in his leg where the bullet remained lodge. With a steady stream of grunts, each growing more and more pained as he moved towards the bridge, Charles managed to stumble into the chair left over from the fishing set-up which, remarkably, remained undamaged by the exchange of gunfire. His Chinese assault rifle and Confederate cap remained where they'd fallen, resting on the planks of a bridge far more damaged than when Charles first arrived.

The patio furniture groaned beneath his slumping weight, bending in the middle where he'd plopped down, yet the sturdy plastic held, thankfully not dumping him onto the ground once again. The pain in his ribs continued to be his biggest agony, the splintered bones rubbing against one another with each labored breath.

Fidgeting around in his pouches, Charles managed to secure a vial of Med-x, a stimpak and his tweezers, noting with dismay just how fast he was going through the chem, and hoping he could limit his usage somewhat in order to prolong the stash. If nothing else, hopefully he'd manage to stumble across some more at some point in the near future.

Before taking any action, the Lone Wanderer jabbed himself with the Med-x, instantly feeling the chem's effects. The pain in all wounds notably subsided, allowing him to finally catch his breath and wipe away the sweat that built up across his face. Now, as comfortably numb as he could be considering the circumstances, Charles took the tweezers and went fishing inside the thigh wound for a bullet.

Even with Med-x working throughout his system, the pain was still excruciating, the tweezers striking frayed nerve endings and damaged bone even as he tried to grip the bullet. He had to get it out before using the stimpak or the bone wouldn't heal properly, even modern medicine had limitation.

With a muffled squeal of excruciating pain, Charles managed to grip the bullet and pull it free. Letting the blood stained lead fall, the Vault Dweller allowed the chair to hold him, vision blurring from pain. After a few moments of stillness, letting his body recuperate, the man swabbed his tweezers clean and stowed them. Yanking the gauze free from his shoulder wound, Charles took the stimpak and jabbed it into his body.

The rush of feeling swarmed him, pain at the rapid healing process brought on by the stimpak's chemical payload, relief at the lessening of the pain and the strange itch of rapidly growing tissue. He sat immobile in the chair, letting the pak do its work for longer than he cared to admit. After he felt confident in his ability to stand without collapsing, the Lone Wanderer pushed himself to his feet.

He swayed momentarily, hands flying outward to grab one of the bridge cover's support posts. After a few seconds bracing himself against the post, Charles finally managed to gain control of his body again. Bending down, he retrieved his hat and returned it to his place on his head. The assault rifle was brushed off and reloaded, but stayed in his hands.

With a determined grunt, Charles hobbled further onward, leaving the covered bridge, and fallen swampfolk, behind him. Curiously, the shirtless creature he'd managed to wing earlier with a bullet had vanished, either moved by a fellow creature or having crawled away on its own. Regardless of how it happened, Charles knew, with at least one survivor out in the swamps, it'd be best not to stick around.

His hobbling shuffle-gait took him further down the trail for longer than he cared to mention. Despite his weakened condition, he didn't encounter any hostiles, save a solitary Mirelurk who must have thought the wounded man easy prey. His pack now stuffed with plenty of fresh meat, Charles continued moving forward, keeping his eyes open for more swampfolk, angry tribals or other creatures. Fortunately, none appeared, a fact he was undeniably grateful for.

He was less than thrilled when the drizzle started, and certainly moved to something approaching anger when that drizzle transformed into a raging downpour. The rain beat down against him, though it replaced the swamp's smothering humidity, the newfound chill wasn't a welcome substitute. With the rain further limiting his visibility, and the earlier encounter proving the swampfolk held a degree of stealth surpassing all obvious signs, Charles determined the best course of action was to find shelter and settle down for the night. The key to the motel room jingled comfortably in his pocket, serving as a friendly reminder that the rest of his goods was safely back in his new lair, hopefully hidden from potential scavengers.

He moved on down the trail further, the hard-packed dirt transformed more into mud with each passing moment. Even the bloatflies had gone to seek shelter, to say nothing of the more intelligent creatures inhabiting the island. Charles, for his part, couldn't seem to find any shelter, searching for anything dry, from a cave to an old shack.

He'd managed to make it to what appeared to be a small, inland pond, when his fortunes at last changed for the better. Across the pond, though through the veil of falling rain it was hard to determine, seemed several glowing lights. However, unlike the strange glow he'd hallucinated the night before, these were homely, inviting patches of warmth, suggesting the shelter of a well maintained cabin. Wishing he'd been smart enough to bring the sniper rifle with him, for scouting purposes if nothing else, Charles dropped into a crawl and moved towards the light.

As he drew closer he was able to determine it was, in fact, a small, well built log cabin, crudely constructed glass windows expelling the light that drew his attention in the first place. A sturdy little dock jutted out from a covered porch, behind which a screen door could be seen. Everything was tidy and well-maintained. Obviously, whoever lived within, cared greatly about appearances, at least by island standards. Knowing better than to doubt the cunning nature of the local inbreds after his near-fatal encounter on the bridge, Charles took up his assault rifle and moved in slowly.

The area appeared free of locals, and he doubted any of them lay in ambush during the torrential downpour, still, he crept up to the door all the same. With near silence perfected by surviving the Capital Wasteland, Charles reached his hand upward and tried the latch still crouching, hold the assault rifle in one hand. Surprisingly, it was unlocked.

Knowing that could mean any number of things, not all of which were good, Charles pushed the door open softly, and crouch-walked into the building. The building was lit by a blazing fire, the warmth brilliantly contrasting the evening's chill. Homemade, but diligently constructed furniture sat scattered about the two rooms composing the interior. An old, military-style cot, clearly salvaged, took up a far wall, next to an impressive looking rack of various guns and a liquor cabinet sadly, nearly depleted of liquor. An overpowering sticky-sweet smell that Charles had begun to associate with the local brew, hung thick over the entire building, and it wasn't hard to determine why. Occupying the entire right corner of the entrance room was a massive metal still, rusted and ancient looking, but clearly still holding some degree of functionality. The smell of bootlegged alcohol was overpowering near the ancient thing, clearly having seen plenty of use over the long years.

He'd crept forward a few steps into the room, assault rifle pointed forward, when he heard the familiar clicking of a shell locking into place and a gruff, female voice, snarled, "Who the hell are you? And what the hell do you want?"

Holding up his hands, Chinese assault rifle pointed towards the ceiling, Charles slowly rose and pivoted towards the voice. The first thing he saw was the sawed-off shotgun in her hands. Though the barrel was wavering in a shaky grip, Charles held no doubt about the owner's ability to hit him with it at this distance. It seemed diplomacy would have to be his weapon.

The owner of the shotgun was a woman, looking remarkably undeformed, notably in light of the swampfolk he'd encountered on the bridge. Her pale blue eyes held heavy bags beneath them, dull blonde hair pulled back and mostly hidden beneath a grey do rag. Her features were lean and gaunt, as she herself was notably thin and pale, sweat beaded down her forehead, unlikely caused by the fireplace, and her leather armor was stained and pitted, appearing at this stage more common clothing than protection. Despite her apparent weakened state, there was a wiry hardness to the woman that suggested she wasn't one to be trifled with. "I'll ask again, pretty boy," she repeated, looking Charles up and down, clearly noting the pistol and trench knife, "Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my cabin?"  
"Charles," the Lone Wanderer responded as diplomatically as possible, still holding the rifle towards the ceiling concerned any movement of the weapon would result in the hard-looking woman unloading on him first. "Exploring, treasure hunting, mostly looking for a place to lay my head down for the night. Your cabin seemed abandoned, so I made my way towards it."

"Well you ain't local, otherwise you'd know I live here," the woman mused, her sentence interrupted by a fit of harsh, barking coughs. Waving him back with her free hand, she stated, "Don't come any closer, I've got the orange fever something fierce, and I'm all out of tonic for the cure. It's mighty contagious, don't you know, you might have caught it already."  
Charles had learned plenty from his father in the field of medicine, and even if he hadn't, he was hardly stupid enough to believe the tall-tale about orange fever. "If 'orange fever' is code for, 'I really need a damn drink because I can't go another day without it,' then yes, I got it." He nodded back towards the still, "And seeing as you've got the equipment for it, I'm guessing your 'tonic' comes in jugs with three x's painted on them. So, let's stop assuming I'm completely stupid and work something out. Because I need some liquor in me just as badly as you do, judging from the chills if nothing else."

"Huh," the woman said after a moment, before slipping the sawed-off back onto the thick leather belt around her waste, "I'll be damned, you actually know a thing or two. I can work with that." Seeing her action as a chance to place them on equal footing, Charles slowly brought his rifle down and slipped it onto his back, making each gesture painfully obvious before he did it.

"Confident I'm not here to hurt you?" He asked honestly, holding his hands up as a sign of good faith.

"If I honestly thought you were here to kill me and steal my shit, I'd never have put the gun away," she told him bluntly, scrawny arms folded across her chest, "Name's Marguerite and this is my shack." She looked past him at her battered old still, "I'm guessing you've figured me out well enough."

"If you're a moonshiner then I have and if you are that'd be fantastic," Charles told her honestly, seeing an opportunity worth capitalizing on. He was low on caps, and if his first two days on the island were anything to do on, he'd be staying that way for quite some time. He'd have enough problems finding Med-x, he really didn't want to be hunting for booze as well. If he could work something out, that might kill two birds with one stone.

"You thirsty?" She looked him up and down, noting the similar shaking in his hands, "Yeah, I can see it," Marguerite waved him into the other room, beckoning towards two rocking chairs. "Let's sit down and talk things over, I reckon we both want the same things."

Charles happily agreed, taking a seat across from the wiry moonshiner, "Are you a local?" He asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"You don't see the resemblance?" She pointed towards her face with a dry chuckle ending in a heaving cough, "I'm blessed I guess. Family's always been here, and we've always made moonshine, far back as I can remember. Half the island runs on my work, and the other half wants to kill me and take it." She shrugged her scrawny shoulders, seeming unbothered by the scenario, "No skin off my nose, some swampfolk trade with me for the stuff, the rest leave me be. Figure it's something to do with my family's long-standing place on the island. We're just as native, if not more, than half the tribals and swampfolk." She reached beneath her rocking chair, withdrawing a glass bottle of whiskey. After taking a long drink from it, she tossed the object towards Charles, "This is the good shit, and there isn't much left so don't waste it, and don't drink it all."

Charles took a hearty pull from the bottle, feeling a warm fuzziness run down his throat and throughout his veins. Immediately, some of the pounding in his skull faded away and he handed the bottle back gratefully, "Glad to see the fabled southern hospitality isn't entirely dead."

"Maybe I want to sweeten the deal with a potential business partner," she responded, "Maybe, I just like your hat, all the same, I know you're interested in making a deal and I want one."

"I want a cut of the moonshine, for personal consumption," the Vault Dweller stated immediately in a firm tone that brokered no argument.

"Hell, you do this job right I might even throw in some caps, in addition to giving you some of the batch," Marguerite responded in no uncertain terms. "Here's the deal, now for obvious reasons, I can't go out into the swamps. I don't get along with everyone, besides, look at me," she gestured to herself in a rather unflattering fashion, "Any old swamplurk is gonna snip me in half before I make it five miles." She reached into a pocket on her armor's shoulder, withdrawing a tattered piece of paper. "You've got the guns and the look for it. If you go out there and bring me back the shit I need, I'll brew up a batch and split it with you. Deal?"

Charles didn't even hesitate, throwing his hand across the open space between seats in his desire to shake the hand, "Absolutely, tell me what you need and I'll bring it."

Marguerite waved him away, tucking the paper back where it came, "In the morning, nothing happens tonight." She glanced past his shoulder out the widows, "You don't go out in the rain. Swampfolk believe the storms are sacred, brought on by their god, or whatever the hell they worship, it's not a safe time for folk like us to be about."

This struck Charles as odd, seeing how he'd trekked a good long while in the rain and not encountered any locals, but perhaps it had been mere luck, or the survivor of the bridge encounter had told the others he wasn't to be trifled with. Regardless, he wasn't about to argue with a woman who'd been here far longer than him, and knew a thing or two about the customs of the swampfolk, however grizzly they may be.

"So. Any way I can convince you to let me stay the night?" Charles asked, in his best lady-slayer voice. Marguerite looked momentarily intrigued, and indeed, actually chuckled audibly at his far from subtle flirtation attempt.

"Tell you what," she mused, stroking her chin thoughtfully, "My old still's not in as good shape as she used to be. Since we're gonna be partners in this venture, it's in our best interest to get the old girl singing again. You do that, I let you sleep on the cot tonight."

That he could do easily enough. "Get me a wrench and some duct tape and I'll have her sing better than Sinatra."

Marguerite raised an eyebrow enquiringly, "Who?"

* * *

Riley was pacing by the radio, waiting for the day's burst of news to crackle over the airwaves and hoping Three Dog said something about the kid from 101. While the Ink Spots usually did a fine job of calming her frayed nerves after a particularly close call or dangerous assignment, currently she detested them, hating every second they stayed on the air and kept Dog from cracking wise.

Wisest of all, Donavan kept his mouth shut, sitting quietly behind her slowly working his way through a can of Cram he'd taken from the kitchen. Normally, his methodical chewing would drive Riley up the wall, but in that moment, his comforting prescience was worth any minor annoyance produced by gnashing teeth. The fork scrapped against the side of the can as the tech got closer to eliminating the small chunk of enclosed meat.

Finally, the song ended and a familiar voice made its way onto the air. "Hi kiddies," Three Dog announced in a tone far more somber than usual, "I need you all to listen up, okay? Because this is important."

Riley ceased her pacing and moved closer towards the radio, bringing her ear far nearer than necessary. Donavan, for his part, wisely kept his mouth closed and stayed in his seat.

"Kids, I've be warning you on and off for a month now, but I figure some of you still haven't heard, so here's a repeat. I can confirm, with one hundred percent accuracy, that the Enclave have taken over Project Purity. James, the kid's dad? Well…" There was an audible pause, as if the DJ was trying to keep his own emotions on the subject hidden, despite the obvious sorrow radiating outward from the radio. "He didn't make it…In fact, most of the scientists who worked on the project didn't."

Riley's heart plummeted in her chest, eyes going wide with shock. She hadn't heard about this, she didn't know the Project had fallen. She felt a wave of nausea rush over her, cold sweat breaking across her face. "Charles…" She found herself murmuring, glued to the radio in hopes that something, anything, would change the story for the better.

"The Jefferson Memorial is now host to heavy Enclave prescience," Dog continued, managing to keep his voice steady, "So please, all of you listening right now, particularly my friends down in Rivet City, steer clear, or those sons of bitches might take your damn head off and I don't want to see that happen to any of you listening, okay?" There was another audible pause, as the disc jockey fumbled around with his notes trying to put things in order.

Riley managed to keep herself standing with the greatest of effort, covering her mouth to avoid letting any sound escape from her lips. Donavan had actually stopped eating, putting the empty can and fork down, leaning in closer with hands folded in a grip so tight Riley was momentarily concerned he might snap off his own fingers.

"Now, I know what you're thinking," Three Dog went on, actually answering Riley's question within his next burst of speech, "What about Charles? The kid from 101, our wasteland friend?" There was another pause, and the leader of Riley's Rangers found herself wanting to scream in frustration and put a bullet in someone if the question wasn't answered immediately. "Well, this Dog is happy to tell you the kid survived Purity, though I can't imagine how hard it must have been for him. Some of my friends in the Brotherhood of Steel tell me, with one-hundred percent certainty, Charles managed to make it to the Citadel, that's the Brotherhood HQ for those of you not up to date with the lingo. Dr. Li, the only scientist whose survival we can confirm, testifies that without the kid from 101 she'd never have made it out in one piece."

"So he's at the Citadel!" Riley announced happily, pumping her fist in the air, "He's okay!"

"Now, where the kid is currently, we aren't sure," Three Dog continued, immediately shattering the joyous outburst from the mercenary. "More recent sources tell me he was seen heading out of the Vault he came from after a brief stop over in Megaton. We can't confirm why he left, only that he did, and he hasn't been seen since. Kid," Three Dog changed his tone, seeming to speak less from a newscaster and more from the perspective of a friend, "If you're listening right now, come tell old Three Dog, I miss you. If any of my friends out there see the kid from 101, give him a hand in whatever he's doing. He's done right by us, so let's return the favor and let me know! I want to report he's a-okay!"

The disc jockey wrapped up the news segment with a brief salutation, wishing everyone would stay safe and happy before changing the stream back to the music of yesterday.

"We have to find him," Riley announced grimly, command rather than requesting. "Too much of this doesn't make sense."

"Agreed," Donavan added without argument, "But before we go charging off into DC we need a plan. It's not like they're going to let us into the Vault, so we need to figure out who else might know where he went." The techie paused, glancing about the Compound with a mask of sorrowful contemplation, "I'm guessing he didn't want to be found, which means I doubt it'll be easy to track him."

"He needs us," Riley stated, "He loved his dad, regardless of what he may have said, he'll be devastated." She was already running off a mental checklist of supplies she'd need for the journey, whatever the damaged Vault Dweller might need she wanted to have. "Donavan, he's going to need us now more than ever, he thinks solitude is his best bet, but that couldn't be further from the truth…"

"We should still go to Megaton," The tech pointed out after some more consideration. "If anyone outside of 101 has an idea where he went, they'll live in the city."

"We move out in an hour," Riley commanded, already heading for the armory, "Tell Butcher and Brick they'll be on their own for a while."

* * *

 **AN: Thanks to all for continued support.**


	4. Megaton

_"Can I ask you something?" Amata inquired as the pair sat in some forgotten hallway deep in the depths of Vault 101. The Nuka-Cola was ice cold and entirely refreshing, the teenagers helping themselves with gusto. The GOAT had been far more draining than either had anticipated._

 _"Did the GOAT really assign me as future Vault chaplain?" Charles responded slyly, taking a sip from his cola, "The answer is, of course, yes, but I'm sure I'll be great at it." He chuckled a bit, taking another pull from the bottle. "I start training with Father Daniel on Monday." He glanced over at his childhood friend, "Why? What'd you get? Future dictator?"_

 _"Overseer and dictator are entirely different!" Amata responded with mocking severity throwing a lazy slap towards Charles' head, which he avoided with ease. "And are you really going to be my chaplain?" He nodded, "Ew. I'm not going to confession with you!" Charles gave a deep belly laugh at the comment, leaning backward to let the wall keep him steady._

 _"Afraid I'll learn even more of your dirty secrets?" He stuck his tongue out, grinning ear to ear like an imp._

 _Amata just shook her head, finishing her Nuka-Cola before she brought the conversation back to where it had started, "You know what I'm trying to get at," a tone of actual frustration took over, an expression of annoyance marring her beautiful features. They said there was nothing worse than an angry woman, so Charles determined to respond properly._

 _"Not quite sure what you're getting at, Amata," James' son answered, taking a little drink of cola in an attempt to buy more time to properly format some kind of response._

 _"Before we took the GOAT," she began, and already Charles was fully aware where the conversation was heading. His brain went into overdrive trying to formulate the appropriate response to the oncoming question. "When Butch and the Snakes were going after me…" She visibly shuddered, the memories of the earlier exchange still fresh in her mind, "You stepped in. I thought he was going to kick your ass all the way to China…"_

 _"I'm a better brawler than old Butch," Charles answered confidently, "Future chaplain or not." Putting the now empty bottle on the floor, he clapped his hands determinedly, "He should have asked his friends to back him up, things might have been a little fairer then."_

 _"I'm not talking about whether you could take him or not," Amata bulldozed onward, refusing to be swayed by any conversation hook, "It's that you did." She looked at him, her gaze as intense as it ever had been, "No hesitation. You just jumped in ready to back up everything you said with fists." Her voice lowered, tone growing softer, "I saw something in your eyes, Charlie, a rage I've never seen before. I was a little scared," she admitted nervously, glancing down at the metal plating beneath their feet. "But that fire powered you into the fight, to protect me." She seemed torn by the feelings that elicited within her own heart, clearly tormented by indecision._

 _"I don't like bullies," he answered nervously, scratching the tiny stubbly hairs beginning to appear on his chin. It was an entirely true statement, but there was more too it, and he was sure Amata had figured that out._

 _"I know that," the Overseer's daughter answered in an almost apologetic tone, as if afraid of doubting his sincerity. "It's one of the things I admire most about you." Charles' heart skipped a beat at that comment, momentarily aglow with pride at Amata's admiration. "But the real question is what is it about me? What made you throw yourself into a fight where you were horribly outnumbered because some stupid boy called me fat?" Her lovely eyes pierced him clean through and he knew in that moment he must tell her the truth. No secretes here._

 _"I really like you, Amata," he whispered, voice so soft the rustling of a radroach's wings would have drowned it out. "I mean, like, like, you know?" His gaze was directed towards the floor sheepishly, afraid to see the look on her face. Had he blown it? Did she hate him? Was she terrified? Disgusted?_

 _A smooth, gentle hand took him by the chin and slowly razed his face to meet Amata's own. "I like you too, Charlie," she said, voice unwavering._

 _Then she leaned in and kissed him._

 _Charles returned it with all the enthusiasm he could muster._

* * *

"Hey! Get the hell up! You're dreaming!" A shrill, feminine voice cut through the haze of a dream that was both parts pleasure and pain. Charles felt hands on his shoulders shaking him roughly about.

His eyes snapped open, gaze falling on Marguerite inches away from his face. The moonshiner had him in a tight grip, own body clearly showing the signs of withdrawal, sweat plastering her face.

Charles realized his body was likewise drenched, the cot soaked clean through with sweat, he was sore all over, partially from the bullet wounds of yesterday's fight and partially from what he assumed was Med-x withdrawal. Slowly, he groggily rose to a sitting position, shoving the woman away. "What's wrong?" He managed to slur out, rubbing throbbing temples with both thumbs, resisting the urge to reach for his pouches with the greatest effort.

"You were thrashing in your sleep, real bad," Marguerite told him bluntly, sitting on the floor a few feet from him. "I got concerned you'd up and die on me." She looked over him, shaking her head sadly, "You've got issues, man."

"Yeah," he chuckled dryly, "Tell me about it." Finally, he could take it no longer, reaching across to the chair where he'd left his vest the previous night before, searching around in his pockets for a dose of Med-x. While he managed to find one, to his horror, he discovered he was down to two syringes full of the stuff. He had a few others stashed away in the motel room but it wouldn't be nearly enough to last the week. He'd been going through the chem at an alarming rate, with no replacement doses in sight.

Despite that fear, he couldn't stop himself from injecting the needle into his arm, letting the cool feeling of numbness spread throughout his body. Glancing over at the moonshiner, Charles responded, "It isn't as bad as it looks."

The woman chuckled, "I aint judging the chems, just admiring the hell outta the shirtless man in my cabin." She looked over his lean, muscular form with an almost predatory grin, "I do love me some scars." She pointed to a long jagged cut that ran diagonally across his chest, "Where'd you get that one?"

Charles glanced down at the wicked looking old wound, groaning with pained recollection, "Super Mutant." Her evident confusion was enough to suggest they didn't have those on Point Lookout. "Big, green and constantly angry. I'd just come out of the sewer system back in DC, where I'm from, and one ambushed me, swinging a board. Good news, he didn't have something like a chainsaw or I'd hardly be as pretty. Bad news, that board was studded with nails, tore my skin really bad." He chuckled slightly, "I killed him, in case you're curious, but I doubt the shotgun shell was equal to the pain he inflicted with a few stupid nails."

"Is DC where Amata is?" Marguerite asked out of the blue, eyes curiously narrowing, awaiting his response.

Charles was completely flat-footed, "Excuse me?"  
"You said her name a bunch while you were out, old girlfriend? That why you left?"

"Doesn't matter," he growled, more angry with himself for letting slip something so personal than as her for curiosity, pulling his shirt on with a degree of frustration not often shown with such a simple act.

"Sure you don't want too…"

"No." The ferocity of the one word response was enough to cut steel. Marguerite's eyes went wide momentarily, before wisely letting the conversation turn in other directions.

Taking the battered old list she'd hinted towards the previous evening from her pocket, Marguerite instructed, "Okay, on to business," Charles began to button up his vest listening intently, "If you want me whipping up a batch of the family's good stuff, I'm going to need the following ingredients." She glanced down towards the paper, eyes scanning rapidly back and forth, "Punga fruit, the wild stuff gets the job done but isn't as strong, so you'll need twice as much as the refined breed, twenty or ten, whichever route you go."

"Where can I get the quality stuff?" Charles asked, both eternally grateful to have a new avenue of conversation and legitimately curious about the difference. He'd picked, and eaten, a few of the punga during his journey around the island but overall hadn't really noticed much of a difference.

"Well, a bunch of friendly tribals have themselves holed up in the old Ark and Dove Cathedral and they grow there, real nice. They must have some cultivating secret because no one on the island grows 'em like they do." She glanced back at her list, "But they won't let you in, unless you're a member and they'll cost a pretty penny to buy," Marguerite quickly flashed a glance towards her new partner. "I'm assuming, because you're helping me bootleg moonshine, you don't have that kind of cash. So the wild stuff will have to do. You'll also need three bags of yeast…"

"Three?" Charles asked, eyes wide, "How much moonshine will this batch make?"

Marguerite gave a sly smile, "A whole hell of a lot." She turned her attention towards the list for one final item, "Oh, and six fission batteries. I need to scrape some of the acid from 'em, gives the family recipe its bite."

That was a twist Charles wasn't sure he liked. "Battery acid?" He asked, his own tone dripping with enough acid to make a dozen batches of moonshine, "And you're positive this isn't going to kill us?"

"My moonshine? Kill us?" Marguerite seemed genuinely offended at the accusation, "Nah, it just has a little kickback. I've been drinking this stuff for years. Do you see any negative side effects?" After a moment of rather humorous pause, she spoke up, "Don't answer that."

Both chuckled, tears forming in the corners of Charles' eyes. Eventually the two returned to a contented silence, before the Lone Wanderer fired off enough question. "So where am I supposed to get that? It's not like there's a Super-Duper Mart I can stroll into a get what we need off a shelf…not that I could afford to do that even if one existed."

"Well, some swampfolk carry 'em, but I don't want you massacring the inbreds just for the yeast, they'll figure out it's for me and I don't want to wake up one morning with a torch-carrying mob outside my door." She paused a moment, rocking backward on her heels and glancing upward towards the plank ceiling of her shack. "Your best bet would be to explore the ship wreckage around the beaches or one of the old pre-war mansions that dot the island. Calvert mansion, near Pilgrim's Point, should have the shit you need, it's big, ancient and abandoned." She paused, "Also full of treasure, if you believe that kinda garbage."

"Calvert sounds good enough," Charles responded, fishing a cigarette out of his pockets. "I'll go get your stuff, and then we'll whip up a batch."

"Works for me," Marguerite answered before smacking the cigarette out of Charles' mouth before the Vault Dweller managed to light it. "And don't smoke in my house."

* * *

Megaton was a bustling center of activity, people in the markets below bartering and arguing, some preacher standing before the old pre-war bomb that Chuck informed Riley he'd disarmed, blathering on about something. A few kids dashed by, giggling and laughing, while the Brahmin bayed loudly from their pens. It had been some time since Riley had been around so many people and she found herself completely overwhelmed.

She'd been so confident, so self assured, but this whole disappearing with Chuck had thrown a wrench into everything. She'd bagged her fair share of ferals and Super Mutants on the way from the Ranger Compound to Megaton without blinking an eye, but now she was surrounded by non-threats and found herself frozen.

 _What the hell am I doing? Focus! Charles needs you!_

Fortunately Donavan, her faithful companion, had taken the change of scenery as he took everything else, pragmatically, without flair. Noting his leader's discomfort, Donavan instinctively moved forward, tapping Riley on the shoulder as he did, "Boss? You want me to take point?" It was spoken without a hint of condescension or arrogance, rather the simple tone of a good friend who didn't want anyone to be uncomfortable, not when he could help.

As tempting as the offer was, this was something she needed to do herself. "Thanks Donavan, but I think I can handle this." She spat out the wad of gum she'd been nervously chewing and rubbed her hands together. After tapping the faded four-leaf clover painted on her chest plate for luck, she announced, "We need to find out where Chuck lives, if he's left any clues they'll be there."

"That beggar outside the city mentioned someone named Lucas Simms might be able to help." Fresh water had loosened the poor bastard's tongue significantly and he'd confirmed beyond all doubt that a vault dweller, matching Charles' description, lived in Megaton. Apparently, this fellow almost always stopped off to give the beggar water, a gesture Riley found incredibly touching and left her missing the young man all the more. While the beggar didn't know where exactly Chuck lived, as he'd never been told, he did say one Lucas Simms, the town's mayor, would. Having heard Charles mention Simms on more than one conversation, Riley found no reason to deny the gentleman's analysis.

"He shouldn't be that hard to spot," she stated, instinctively agreeing with her second in command. "Chuck described him as a cowboy, ten-gallon hat and all." The leader of Riley's Ranger's sent her gaze towards the market place, through the downward sloping path, trying to locate the distinctive hat and duster of a cowboy. However, she didn't have to look long, as the figure began moving up the path towards them determinedly.

Lucas Simms was a big man who radiated an even bigger prescience. He reminded Riley of a yao-guai for some reason, bulky muscle hiding an unexpected swiftness and lethality. His dark face and darker beard were set in a neutral expression, though the lines beneath his eyes suggested a man who spent most of his time smiling and laughing. His stride was long and easy, an attempt to suggest both a casual confidence in his abilities and persuade any troublemakers not to try anything. In his hands he held a weathered but still vicious looking Chinese assault rifle which, duct-tape not withstanding, appeared more than ready to put 30 5.56mm rounds into both Riley and Donavan with the slightest provocation.

"Hey there," he stated in a warm voice, holding a guarded tone, "Welcome to Megaton. Lucas Simms, resident sheriff." He glanced at both Infiltrator, resting on Riley's back within easy reach and Donavan's near-gargantuan pile of mines and grenades, plus his own trusty assault rifle. "You aren't looking to start something in my town are you? I'm not one for disruption."

 _I find that easy enough to believe._

Riley cleared her throat, "Sheriff Simms? I'm Riley, captain of Riley's Rangers mercenary company and this is my XO Donavan." Her tech tapped two fingers to the side of his helmet in a sloppy salute, bringing the ghost of a smile to Simms' lips. "We're friends of Charles? We're looking for him."

"Wait a minute," Simms rumbled, slinging the assault rifle over his shoulder, "Orange hair…Yeah, he mentioned you." The neutral expression vanished, replaced with the broad, beaming smile Riley anticipated. "Any friend of that guy's welcome in my town! He told you about the bomb right?"

Riley nodded before asking, "Wait? Did he mention me to you?" Her curiosity entirely aroused about what Chuck might have said about her to others, despite Donavan's throat clearing attempt at suggesting she might not actually want to know that information.

"To me?" The sheriff responded, "Only a couple of times, but whenever he left to go see you I could tell. He'd be whistling." Simms smile broadened, "He'd look like a man without a care, which I always liked to see considering how much crap he's put up with and what he did for all of us here in Megaton."  
"Sheriff Simms," Donavan cut in, clearly remembering that there was an actual goal that needed to be accomplished, that being locating the missing Vault Dweller. "We need to find Charles' house; we understand he called Megaton home. If he'd left any clues to his whereabouts they'd be inside. Please," he inquired respectfully yet firmly, "We need to find him before anything happens."

Simms didn't even hesitate. "See that building there?" He pointed a gloved hand towards the nearest home to the left of the Rangers. It was a two story shack, made from sheet metal and scrap, yet bearing a remarkably comforting appearance. "That's his place, a reward for disarming the nuke and saving my city." The unofficial mayor threw a thumb over his shoulder towards the bomb, gratitude evident in his voice. "You've got no idea about the load that took off my mind, believe me." Riley very much did believe him as having an undetonated nuke in one's backyard seemed the opposite of relaxing.

"Thank you," Riley told him with complete honesty, nodding her head gratefully. The large man tipped his cowboy hat respectfully and returned to his post in the market. Turning towards Donavan, the captain of Riley's Rangers asked, "Shall we take a look?" _  
_"We don't have a key," the tech noted in a tone that suggested perhaps Riley had overlooked that important detail.

"If Simms had a spare he'd have given it to us," the captain pointed out as the pair moved towards the metal door. "Maybe Chuck left Wadsworth behind, if not," she jingled a handful of bobby pins, "We'll get in the old fashioned way."

"I'm sure Charles wouldn't drag his Mr. Handy all over the place," Donavan noted with a hesitation suggesting he prayed his boss wouldn't pick a lock in the middle of a crowded town in broad daylight but feared she was desperate enough to do so.

"Exactly," Riley responded with a hint of her old pep, the fact they'd made it this far starting to break through the funk that had overwhelmed her. Rapping her knuckles against a door clearly stolen from among the numerous ruins and forced into a hole crudely made in the sheet metal making up the front wall, Riley found the action greeted by two sets of voices.

"Ah! Someone at the door! At last!" That voice was posh and very British, accompanied by the usual tinny intonation suggesting a Mr. Handy robot. A slight whirring of gears sounded, as if the robot was moving closer.

"Probably commie spies! I'll vaporize them where they stand! Hoo-ah!" This second voice, though having the same robotic overtone as the first, was the exact opposite. It was harsh, brash and thoroughly American.

"Calm down," the first robot admonished his companion, "There's not a chance at all that these visitors are communists, or dangerous. Put your plasma rifle down!" The sternness of the butler's voice was near comical. The grumbling that resulted certainly was.

"Fine," the other robot conceded, "But I'm keeping the flamethrower ready!"

"Oh my dear lord," the Mr. Handy remarked under his mechanical breath, to Riley's complete amusement. The lock on the door clicked and the barrier was flung open. Hovering on the other side was a near gleaming Mr. Handy robot, three eyes focused intently on her. Though this was the first time meeting Wadsworth in the flesh, so to speak, Charles had mentioned him enough times that she felt there was a decent understanding of the butler's character.

It seems that feeling was mutual, "As I live and breath, Captain Riley! How good of you to come visit!" He gestured backwards with a claw hand, "He's dreadful company." Though the last line was whispered, the other robot, whose identity the Captain had already guessed, must have heard it.

"Damn limey! Every insult you heap on me is one you heap on Uncle Sam!" The Mr. Gusty bellowed with all his mechanical vigor, "No one insults Uncle Sam!" The robot barreled across the spotless floor, the breeze of his motor wrinkling the fancy pre-war carpet the Vault Dweller had somehow acquired. Unlike the Mr. Handy, whose sheen was nearly blinding, the combat robot was covered with a thick coat of grease, dirt and rust. Despite the extreme dullness of his metal body still visible ranking stripes gave away the 'bot's identification. Besides that, Riley had met him before. Sergeant RL-3. or Sarge, certainly left an impression, whether he was in Chuck's shadow or not.

The Mr. Gutsy's eyes narrowed on Riley, his processors whirring as he matched the face to the name held within his databanks. "Captain!" The combat robot snapped his pincer hand against the top half of his round central body in the Mr. Gusty equivalent of a salute, his gesture far sharper than Donavan's had been. "It's an honor to see you again." His robotic voice beamed with pride as he displayed the functionality of his weapons.

Riley returned the salute with one of her own, "At ease, Sarge." Her tone was clipped and military, without a touch of hesitation. She was about to begin plying the 'bots for information when Donavan cut it.

"Woah, Charles really likes his gnomes." The tech announced for the whole world to hear, holding up one of the little plastic garden display items as tenderly as he would a plastic explosive. Sure enough, on several units of shelving clearly liberated from the ruins of one of DC's department stores, were numerous garden gnomes, intact and not, in all shapes and sizes.

"Yes," Wadsworth responded in as casual a tone as possible, "Mr. Charles seems quite determined to build a collection. He brings them in often whenever he returns. Everyone needs a hobby I suppose," the robot seemed perplexed by his master's strange collection but too loyal to the Lone Wanderer to question it.

"The gnomes are boring," Sarge droned, sliding across the floor to the workbench Charles had installed, tapping it happily with his buzz-saw arm. "Sometimes he brings home random garbage and builds weapons out of it!" It robots could salivate Riley had no doubt that Sergeant RL-3 would be at that moment. "He built a flaming sword from scrap once! A flaming sword!" Clearly there was nothing the Mr. Gusty could think of as more exciting than that flaming sword.

The lack of barking was becoming more and more notable to Riley, leading her to realize Dogmeat wasn't present. Certainly if he was he'd have made his presence know by that point. Evidently, Donavan had figured the same. "Hey Wadsworth?" The tech enquired, carefully returning the gnome to its place on the wall-maintained shelf. "Where's Dogmeat? I figured he'd be here."

"I'm afraid I haven't seen him since the last time I saw the master," there was a sadness the deflated the naturally jovial tone of the robot. "Charon took the dog with him, something about, 'needing to ensure he was properly fed.'" The Mr. Handy grumbled, "As if I couldn't do it myself."

"That's actually why we're here," Riley probed, taking advantage of the opportunity provided to get answers to her questions. "Chuck is missing, and we're trying to find him."

"Mising?" Sarge responded with a tone of pure shock, "Has he been gone that long?" Wadsworth, for his part, likewise seemed surprise that anyone would consider Charles to be missing.

"I'm afraid so," Donavan responded, nodding his head gravely, "Over a month."

"Oh dear," Wadsworth trapped the pincer hand against the front of his body, hovering a little lower to the ground. The chronometer on the Mr. Handy model didn't seem to have registered the seriousness of the length of missing time. "We need to find him!"

"What can you tell us?" Riley continued, pressing the robots for further intelligence, "Anything could make a difference."

"Well," the butler stated, "Mr. Charles had just come back from the Memorial when he received a radio signal on his Pip-Boy, I'm afraid I didn't catch much of it."

"Something about 101," Sarge growled confidently, sliding further around the room, agitated about the lack of action on behalf of his master.

"My weapon-heavy cousin is correct," Wadsworth confirmed. "The master was gone a few days, far from unusual…"

"He didn't bring me, that's plenty unusual," Sarge grumbled angrily clicking his pincer hand. That meant Charles probably wasn't expecting much action as Sergeant RL-3 was arguably the best armed of all the Lone Wanderer's friends.

"Indeed," the Mr. Handy responded sarcastically, tone suggesting it was a rather sensible decision on Charles' part. "Before I was interrupted. He returned, seeming quite dejected and said something to Mr. Charon about having to leave DC. Charon asked if he could come with him to the island, but clearly Mr. Charles wanted to be alone. So he left. I assumed he'd return soon enough and thus didn't bother recording the date." The robot bristled, seeming flustered by his failure as a manservant, "He'd just lost his father, you understand, I was certain giving him space was the right decision."

"It isn't your fault," Donavan advised in a gentle tone, quietly shifting from foot to foot, "You made the best decision you could have with what you knew. But do you know anything about this island? Where we can find it? How to get there?"

"I'm afraid I don't know, sir," Wadsworth admitted, thinking as hard as it was possible for the robot to think. "However, I'm sure Charon would, he was nearly always by the master's side."

"And Charon?" Riley probed, "Where can we find him?"

"He went back to Underworld," Sarge noted, "That's assuming he survived the journey, it's hell out there."

 _Well, he's not wrong._

"We need to go to Underworld," the Captain announced without hesitation, "If Charon knows where Charles is I want everything he knows yesterday." She patted the barrel of Infiltrator comfortingly, "And if any raider stands in my way I hope they've made peace with God."

"I'll accompany you!" Sergeant RL-3 announced with far too much joy evident in his voice, buzzing his saw with poorly-disguised glee, "It's been too long since I've gooified some commie bastards! Besides, the boss needs me!"

"I'm happy to have you aboard," Riley told him, entirely honest. Rough around the edges RL may be there were worse possibilities than having a fully loaded Mr. Gusty at her back. "Underworld's through the heart of Super Mutant territory and I'm sure you'll find plenty of use for that flamethrower."

"If I may, Miss Riley," Wadsworth interrupted, waving his pincer hand for attention. "I will stay behind and keep house, incase Mr. Charles returns. However," he paused and Riley was absolutely certain that if he had a physical mouth Wadsworth would be giving a sly smile, "There is another gentleman living in town who owes the master a few favors, I'm sure he'd be all too happy to assist you in your quest. Let me point you in his direction…"

* * *

"Just get me beer, and some iguana bits," Jericho growled, hunching forward over the bar outside the Brass Lantern, cigarette in hand, the cloud of smoke partially obscuring his face. Jenny Stahl did her best to keep her disdain hidden from the gruff looking ex-raider but a customer was a customer, grabby or otherwise. "Would it kill yah to smile?" He grumbled, rubbing his shaved head with a free hand, puffing angrily on his cheap nicotine filled hit. The older bandit's eyes shifted from side to side, a nervous habit he never managed to lose after picking it up during his time raiding out in the wasteland. His assault rifle sat loaded and ready to be drawn at a moment's notice, safety off. It'd never do to be caught off-guard, he was old, not dead and he sure as hell wasn't weak or feeble. Now if only she'd pick up on that.

"A smile might kill you," Jenny growled under her breath, turning the chunks of fried lizard over the grill once to ensure proper cooking before bending lower to retrieve a sealed bottle of beer from beneath the counter. "I hope it kills you," she stated coldly, popping the cap off before sliding the beer across the countertop. She wasn't quite fast enough however, as Jericho's hand shot out, snagging her wrist in his tight, leathery grip.

"Why do you have to be that way darling?" He asked lecherously, his cold hazel eyes leering right through the thin clothes she wore. "All I'm asking is for a little fun…Hell you might enjoy yourself," He grinned, his salt and pepper beard giving the expression an uncomfortable air. "I know a thing or two…"  
"Screw you," Jenny told him coldly, ripping herself free of the ex-raider's grasp, "Bugger off somewhere and die old man, just ensure it's plenty distance from me." Her hand dropped to the butt of the Chinese pistol on her waist, the pale uncalloused nature of her fingers suggesting she'd never actually drawn the weapon.

Jericho chuckled, spitting out cigarette smoke with each cold laugh. "Daring, that's the most adorable gesture I've ever seen you make, stop making me like you so much."

He was thinking about drawing his knife and carving his name into the counter as a little showcase of his skills, when a harsh robotic voice he absolutely recognized announced, "That's the man, there!"

"Aw shit," the ex-raider growled, turning his head towards the sound. Sure enough, ol' RL-3 was hovering towards him, all eyes fixed on the bandit. Beside the Mr. Gutsy strode two armored figures, a non-descript man and a woman with brilliant orange hair that he knew both by reputation and Charles' constant gushing "Jericho you should have seen her," he muttered under his breath, mimicking the kid's upbeat voice to the best of his abilities, "She kicks so much ass, she's such a badass, her hair!… Geeze kid, just bang her and move on already, goddamn moron."

"Jericho?" Riley announced authoritatively, as if he was supposed to be impressed she knew his name. There was a gunfighter's stance in her posture, he'd give her that. Yet despite her fancy armor and weapon the bandit had no doubt he could take her. You don't make it to sixty in the raider's life without learning plenty of tricks.

"Screw you," he stated in his most diplomatic voice, turning away from the mercenary, returning to the all-consuming task of mentally undressing Jenny Stahl.

"You know Chuck I'm told," she stated, rather than asked, striding across the market towards the Brass Lantern, refusing to take his subtle hint. "I'm also told he paid for some of that fancy equipment you've got before you two parted ways. So you're going to help us find him."

That was true at least, his new assault rifle was absolutely lovely, not a speck of rust on it. "Yeah, really? I don't think so," he grumbled, "I owe that kid nothing, seeing how I saved his ass plenty of times out there." Jericho shot his thumb towards the Megaton gate as dismissively as possible, "Kid acts like he's some kind of badass but we can't go three damn feet without helping cats outta trees."

"Correct," Sarge rumbled, very much agreeing with Jericho's implied disdain for hero work. Riley shot the Mr. Gutsy a dirty look before turning her attention back to the former raider.

"He saved your ass plenty as well," She announced, locking eyes with the far older man. Riley squinted ever so slightly, taking a step forward, "I know all about your journeys, believe me. You say you're a hard old bastard then you run away from a fight? That sounds like a coward to me. Chuck said you're plenty of unpleasant things, but a coward's not one of them." The tone was steel and blood, the woman's form still, coiled like a snake ready to strike. "He's done far more in twenty years than you have in sixty, believe me."

"He's nineteen," Jericho responded, admittedly feeling a sting to his pride but shaking it off. "And I don't give a wet shit what he thinks about me. Charles can go die in a hole, I've got a good thing going here anyways."

"Listen," Riley told him coldly, slowly pulling the rifle off her back, scope gleaming in the light, "I don't care what you think about him, I don't care about your damn reputation or comfort of whatever else is so damn important to you." Jericho tensed ready to throw down, but noting the other Ranger and Sarge likewise adopting combat stances decided against it. He was good, but not three armed fighters at close quarters good, not without gun in hand. "He's my friend, and he's in trouble, you're going to help me get him back. Understand?" The demand was so ludicrous Jericho erupted into a barking laugh, "Or what?" He responded dismissively, "You'll cry all over me?"  
"No." Riley's face was a killer's emotionless mask. "I'll shoot you dead, right here, right now." She looked the ex-raider up and down, rifle barrel not-quite pointed at him, "For all your bluster I'm assuming living is something you'd very much like to keep doing."

"You're bluffing," Jericho snarled, spitting out cigarette smoke as he did, "Simms won't let you gun anyone down in public, no matter what he thinks of me."

"I'm not gunning you down," now that stoic mask transformed into a cold grin, "I'm protecting Jenny," she nodded towards the woman behind the counter. "You went after her in a fit of jealous, lust-crazed desire and I was forced to kill you to save her. Everyone here saw it," Riley looked to her XO, Mr. Handy and finally back to the woman behind the counter, "Isn't that right, Jenny?"

There was fire in the Stahl girl's eyes, "Absolutely. And I'm forever grateful for it."

"Goddamn lady," Jericho stated, halfway between stunned and impressed, "That's cold."

"That's the way the hand lies," Riley told him firmly, "Now, are you going to fold or are in?"  
As nice as being freed from the mortal coil seemed to the crotchety old bandit, he didn't want it to happen just yet and something about Riley's voice and posture told Jericho she wasn't bluffing. Figuring that almost certain death was preferable to absolutely guaranteed death, he agreed. "Fine," he snarled by way of response, "Just let me get my stuff."

* * *

 **AN: Sarge is probably my favorite character to write, heck, he practically writes himself! Thanks for the continued support for this story, you are all the wind beneath my wings. :)  
**


	5. Desmond Lockheart

**AN: There is a flashback in this chapter which is somewhat steamy, not at all explicit, but I felt a warning worthwhile all the same.**

* * *

Little Theodore still stoically maintained his post when Charles returned, a fact that pleased him greatly. The teddy bear sat vigilant, keeping watch over room 1G and all the contents that had been stored therein. A quick glance about by the Vault Dweller proved nothing was missing. An actual pleasant surprise was a nice change, particularly with his remaining stock of Med-x so low.

"Good job buddy," Charles told the teddy bear softly as he moved towards the weapons table. He'd burned through plenty of assault rifle ammo already; his few remaining spare clips gazing up sadly. Another group of swampfolk had attacked him on his way back to the motel from Marguerite's, but without the element of surprise, the fight was far less of a struggle. Even so, he'd burned through even more of the 5.56 clips and the last thing he wanted was too run out of the precious commodity. Besides, he was exploring the interior Calvert Mansion, suggesting a more close quarter's affair; a change of weaponry was needed.

Yet ammunition wasn't the only thing he was running out of.

All the way back from the moonshiner's shack, the Lone Wanderer's mind had been racing, feverishly trying to determine just how many doses of Med-x he'd left behind in the motel base. To his abject horror, that proved far less than anticipated. Counting the syringe in his pouch he'd managed to avoid using with titanic effort of the mind, he was left with four doses. His entire body was itching, the horrible lingering sensation occupying nearly every inch of skin, soon would follow chills, sweating and shaking. Yet even so, he had to resist the urge to dose up. It'd be far worse soon, and he needed to make every chem count.

So, he took advantage of what he could do, and pleased the demands of his other vice. The scotch he'd liberated from the swampfolk band he'd encountered earlier was far too good for them, the fine, smooth flavor of the drink proudly proclaiming the brewer's true skill. He'd happily snatched it from the leather satchel the one inbred wore, sampling its delicious contents before moving onto the other bodies. His searching of the malformed trio netted him some bizarre religious totems constructed from doll parts and bones, a few rounds of assorted ammunition, the bottle of scotch and a packet of mentats. Morbidly, Charles turned the little tin container around in his hands before a modicum of self control took over. He already had two crippling addictions, he certainly didn't need to add a third. After pitching the chems into the bog, he'd made fantastic time back to the motel, happily chewing away on the now dried mirelurk meat he'd stowed in his vest, partially out of necessity and partially as an attempt to find something, anything, to focus on rather than the crawling itch of his skin.

Taking another long drink from the glass bottle of scotch, Charles slammed the near finished vessel down on the weapons table with severity. He had a job to do, that moonshine wasn't going to make itself. His host hadn't said much about the old Victorian-style manor but he'd done enough house-fighting to know what to expect. The locals apparently believed it haunted which, though unlikely to be the habitat of spirits, meant that some creature had probably taken up residence therein. So, practically and pragmatism demanded he be prepared for any eventuality. Thus, the weapons.

Two frag grenades felt a good addition as he slipped them onto his belt for easy reach, the combat shotgun was well was an obvious choice. The rugged piece of firepower had carried him through plenty of close calls back in DC, though he couldn't make the weapon sing the same way Charon could. That weapon had powered him through the Super Mutant lines at the Statesman hotel towards Riley's Rangers. In all likelihood, without that shotgun he'd never have made it, never would have brought Riley's team home to her.

An image of the orange-haired mercenary captain blazed into his mind with the raging force of an angry tsunami. Her soft eyes, sly half-smile, that little chuckle she gave after he'd given some particularly self-deprecating crack about himself…

All of a sudden he felt a deep, thick sensation of guilt at leaving the woman behind without so much as a good-bye. He'd been so crushed, so devastated…Yet at that moment in time every excuse he could dream up felt hollow, as if he were the most selfish bastard DC had ever spat out. Shame, thicker than smoke, followed that guilt, a brutal reminder that he wasn't himself anymore. Gone was the bright-eyed do-good lad who'd strolled out of Vault 101 on a mad quest to find his father, side-tracked by the pleas of every beggar, as Jericho would often remind him with a particular frown. In the place of that clean, articulate almost-chaplain was a grungy, disheveled chem-addict, trying to brew moonshine and hunt down drugs. His friend shouldn't see him like this…Hell, even Jericho would probably cringe at the sight of Charles now.

He finished the bottle of scotch, letting the memories and shame burn away with the potent alcohol. He needed more, anything to keep his mind in check. A new determination to track down the yeast and batteries took over and he slung the shotgun across his back with a growl. On a whim, the Lone Wanderer snatched up the lever-action rifle from beside the bed, just in case any combat proved to be at a greater distance than he'd anticipated.

Helping himself to a box of Sugar Bombs he'd bought from Madam Panada, Charles turned towards the door, ready to head back out into the island and breach Calvert Mansion, the ghostly shadow of which was just barely visible from the motel, looming over the countryside like a monster, when his eyes fell upon the shelf beneath the window. He looked past the one small gnome he'd brought with him from the Capital Wasteland, past the ball cap he'd received so many birthdays ago and instead found himself gazing at the fresh vault suit with the numbers 101 stamped across the back in vivid yellow.

His body shook, a combination of alcohol, withdrawal and memories. Dropping the cereal without opening the box, Charles dashed for the door. He'd go out there and get lost in his work, he'd forget her, forgot him, forget everything. He'd bury himself in the job and let the memories fade away.

It had worked for dad after all.

* * *

 _"It could be fun you know," Charles told her sly, gazing up at the woman hovering above him, the bed keeping them both up. The sweat on her naked body glistened in the darkness, features still somehow visible to the nineteen year-old dweller. Though he'd seen his beloved Amata undressed plenty of times now, her beauty never stopped taking his breath away._

 _She giggled wickedly, nose crinkling in the manner he so loved. "Charlie, that's so naughty, you're going to be a chaplain, have some dignity!" Her voice carried an air of faux severity, whispered to ensure none of the other vault residents would hear the evening's session. Though most would be asleep by that point, it wouldn't do to be overheard. The Overseer's word was law in 101, and he'd not exactly given his approval allowing Amata slinking away into Charles' bed at night. Somehow, the young man doubted he was likely to get that approval._

 _Still, worry that his girlfriend might be caught by Vault Security out of bed after hours was always brushed aside by Amata, "They'd never catch me," she'd always say, "And if they did, they wouldn't question me. Being the future Overseer has its privileges."_

 _He didn't have many regrets in his young life. Things in the Vault were near perfect and the relationship he held with Amata, his Amata, had only grown stronger since that day he'd confessed his feelings. They'd been together since and, on the evening of his eighteenth birthday, she'd made the decision to take their relationship to a whole new level and was he ever glad she did._

 _"But won't my future employment make the act all the dirtier, and therefore better?" He asked with a sly smirk, rubbing his hand sensually along her back. The smoothness of her skin, the arches of her form, if any atheist came doubting the goodness of God, there was the physical proof, his Amata._

 _"Maybe," she winked, "But I'm happy with tonight's performance as is," she let herself slump into Charles' arms, "Now cuddle with me, damn it." With a laugh, the man agreed, wrapping Amata tightly in his grip. Nuzzling against her neck and kissing it softly, he was so intent on the sweet scent of her hair that he nearly missed the subtle shift in posture._

 _She pulled tighter on his arm, wiggling into him with an intensity that suggested she hoping he'd engulf her in his form and never let go. A shiver ran down her body, unlikely to be caused by a draft in the warm room due to the thick woolen blanket. "Charlie?" She asked him timidly, keeping both hands wrapped tightly around his forearm._

 _"What is it?" Chares responded, shifting his girlfriend around in his arms so he could gaze into her face. Her eyes were brimming with barely contained tears, threatening to spill out at any moment. She was certainly shivering now, his imagination held in check by concern. "Hey, baby?" He asked softly, running his hand along her back, trying to calm her, "You can talk to me. You know that."_

 _"Charlie…"She was struggling to form a sentence; as if afraid that her statement would bring something to reality that otherwise might not occur. "My father is starting to lose his mind. He's becoming more paranoid every day." Her tone suggested she was very much opposed to whatever that might lead towards. "What if he finds out about us?"_

 _It was a tone of utter concern, and with good reason. Charles doubted the overseer would be reasonable about the young man's physical relationship with his daughter. Still, he didn't want to worry her more than she clearly already was, and so decided against voicing those concerns. "Hey," he told her with all sincerity in his voice, "Things are going to be just fine."_

 _But they wouldn't be. In less than 12 hours everything would change…_

* * *

"Damn Mutants," Jericho growled, kicking the green-skinned corpse riddled with bullets and knife wounds lying on the ground at his feet, "They don't go down easy."

"But they burn like fireworks on the forth of July!" Sarge crowed, spraying another gout of flame into the trenches below regardless of whether there were any targets. Considering the number of Super Mutant bodies scattered about after the rag-tag band had finished, Riley very much doubted any survivors would be sticking around.

"Remind me why we're out here again?" Jericho announced loudly to everyone and no one, reloading his weapon with obvious disdain. Bending low, he went through the lone pouch the mutant wore on its waist, finding a few loose rounds and, happily, a pack of cigarettes. Though he doubted the beast had smoked a few, he wasn't concerned by the Mutant's logic for carrying them, merely happy with the find. "Everyone who's got half a brain knows to steer clear of this part of the Wasteland," he continued, trying to ignore the rising, near-maniacal laughter emanating from the Mr. Gutsy at the continued carnage wrought by his flame-thrower. "We're going to get ourselves killed out here, that's God's honest truth." He lit up one of the cigarettes and, despite his bitching, found his spirits lifted immensely; there were few sorrows that couldn't be cured with a good smoke.

Slapping a fresh clip into her Infiltrator, Riley put an extra bullet through the skull of the Super Mutant Butcher she'd just dropped. After confirming the beast was dead, the mercenary captain turned her attention towards the grumpy ex-raider, "We're here to help the best man the Capital Wasteland has to offer find his way home." There was steel in her voice, and Donavan's look suggested dropping the matter, but Jericho wasn't having it.

"The finest man in the Capital Wasteland, huh?" The bandit gave a leering wink, "Darling have you met me?"

Riley didn't seem amused. "Jericho, you're as much Charles' equal as a bloatfly is to a Deathclaw." Her withering gaze struck Jericho with the force of a mini-nuke, the mercenary standing a little bit straighter as she defended her friend's honor.

"Defensive," the ex-raider whistled, "Sounds like someone's got a bit of a crush…" He brayed loudly, spitting out clouds of foul smelling smoke like pre-war factory. When Riley's face turned a slight scarlet and she didn't rebut, Jericho pounced. "So, if I get my ass fried because you've got the hots for preacher boy, I'm haunting you forever." He seemed only halfway joking, a definite bitterness in his voice.

"Just shut the hell up and keep moving," Riley growled, "We're almost to Underworld. After Charon tells us where Chuck is and we rescue him from whatever mess he's in, you can go back to Megaton and drink yourself to death. How's that sound?"

"You miss the part where Jenny finally gives into my charms and I get laid."  
Riley didn't dignify that comment with a remark.

* * *

The Calvert Mansion resembled something out of one of the old history books

Charles studied extensively back in 101. Unlike those colorful pictures the actual building was a rundown old husk of its former glory. Somehow, the very color of the mansion had faded, appearing drab and joyless. Most of the windows were cracked, and a few appeared to have shattered and hastily boarded up. Large snaking vines overgrew the crumbling masonry that made up the walls, each brick seemingly held in place by a combination of the constructor's skill and desperate prayer. Before the rusted old door and battered stairs was a lawn overgrown and unruly, clearly not having seen a lawnmower blade in decades. The twisting black iron fence surrounding the property had fallen in multiple places, rusting away to dust and scrap. A large glasshouse lay shattered and broken on the property near the mansion, the plants and statues within reduced beyond rubble.

While the whole building gave off an aura of haunted abandonment there was one notable element that didn't quite fit the picture of emptiness. A crumbling smokestack worked its way above the slat roof, barely clinging to any semblance of form and from the maw of that smokestack came bellowing clouds of smoke.

Charles stood puzzled, taking his cap from his head and wiping his brow with the back of a hand. After determining what he was seeing wasn't his imagination, the Vault Dweller realized one important detail Marguerite had either left out or forgotten to add, the Mansion still had someone living inside it, someone intelligent enough to use the fireplace at that.

Reaching a hand into one of the pouches on his vest, Charles withdrew the bottle of Nuka-Cola he'd brought along. Hopefully there'd be more inside the mansion because he was down to one last bottle of cola. While he could go without it, he wasn't excited by the prospect.

He'd just taken a drink from the bottle, putting up with the flat, room-temperature nature of the beverage with a degree of polite stoicism, when he heard it, an explosion coming from the direction of the house, accompanied by several gun shots and screams. Not only was the building occupied, but it seemed someone was intent on dying over it.

Jamming the cap back onto the bottle with as much speed as he could maintain while still keeping the contents safe, Charles returned the cola to its place while taking up his combat shotgun. Dropping into a crouch and pumping the weapon once to ensure the first shell clicked into place, the Vault Dweller made his way across the grounds towards the building.

Eyes scanning the area as he moved in towards the double-doors that comprised the entrance, Charles stayed alert for the sounds of further gunfire. While he didn't hear any, there was absolutely a violent struggle within the mansion. He cleared the shattered pathway before the house in seconds, putting his shoulder to the double doors with all the possible effort his chem-deprived body could accomplished. What he saw within was a scene of pure carnage that would have happily fit into any of his pictures of the Capital Wasteland.

Though it was covered in the same drab sheen of decay that had so enveloped the exterior, the entrance hall he found himself in took his breath away. Two arching marble staircases swung towards an upper floor, supported by well-buffed banisters clearly hand carved from oak. Large oil paintings, untarnished by the ravages of time, rested on dusty walls, showcased one family member or another. A fine carpet, much like the one back in his Megaton home covered most of the smooth marble floor, though somewhat threadbare and worn from the constant scraping of boots and shoes. Several side tables and coat racks contained dusty glasses and articles of drink, while a few sturdy armoires remained standing, awaiting coats from visitors who'd never again grace the old Victorian-style mansion's halls.

However, it was the figures standing on that thread-worn carpet that drew his gaze. Three men, dressed in rags, robes and feathers clearly identifying them as local tribals, surrounded a different figure, while the blood-stained, mutilated bodies of several of their kin remained scattered about the floors. The lone figure standing amongst them seemed entirely unshaken by the lopsided odds. He was a ghoul, wearing a sharply pressed cream-colored suit while dark eyeglasses covered a killer's expression, pupils warped by radiation into the sickly yellow shade of his kind. A full set of dark red hair, impeccably maintained, rested atop the corpse-like head, with a thin mustache sticking proudly out from beneath a hawkish nose. An empty service rifle and 10 millimeter handgun lay at his feet, and in his weathered hands he held a steel butterfly knife, blade pointed towards the floor. The three large, yet completely undeformed and thus a stark contrast to the violent swampfolk, tribals were armed with a two-handed axe looking sharp enough to fell any of the massive trees doting the island's landscape, a razor-edged machete and a long serrated spear respectively. Each and every one of them looked far deadlier and better armed than the well-dressed ghoul, and even as he raised his shotgun, Charles was afraid this man would be dead before he could act.

Yet the Vault Dweller's initial analysis on the deadlier party in this combat couldn't have been more wrong.

The ghoul moved like lightning. Even as the spear wielding tribal thrust the weapon towards him, he was slapping the point towards the ground, driving its jagged flint harmlessly into the wooden floorboards. While moving he ducked beneath a two handed axe swing from a different savage, neatly deflecting the hacking machete blow with the knife. The point of the small weapon gleamed brilliantly in the light, the shine suddenly dulled by blood red as the ghoul slashed the blade across the back of both legs belonging to the spear holder.

Even as the bulky tribal collapsed screaming, the ghoul took the butterfly knife across his throat, opening the neck to the bone. Catching the spear in one hand before the owner's body even hit the floor, the ghoul pivoted sharply on his polished shoes, avoided a downward chop from the machete clutching tribal. With a sharp jab he drove the spear deep into the machete holder's gut, the weapon bursting out the back in a spray of blood and intestines. The tribal collapsed, hands futilely trying to pull free the weapon now impaling him like an iguana on a stick.

The last tribal, enraged by the almost casual dispatching of his kin, bellowed like a mad dog, swinging his massive axe rapidly in both beefy hands. Yet, despite the size and armament differences, even the untrained eye could note which of the two combatants was clearly the more dangerous.

Taking a simple step backward, the ghoul avoided the axe blow with a disdainful expression on his face. Twisting about like a snake, he suddenly crossed the distance between the rag-clad tribal and himself, appearing directly before his adversary. The ghoul drove the knife into the other man's chest, sinking the point deep into the big man's heart. The tribal suddenly went stiff, dropping his axe before falling to the floor. The whole exchange had taken maybe five seconds.

"Damn it," the ghoul growled in a husky voice not uncommon for his kind, tone tinged with a faintly British accent, "Got blood on the goddamn carpet." Cleaning the butterfly knife on a dead tribal's hair before snapping it closed, the suited ghoul turned towards the visitor on his doorstep. "What the hell are you waiting for?" He snarled towards Charles, "A bloody invitation? My house in under siege from these backwater shits and I don't have time to visit with any treasure-hunters. Help me or don't but stay the hell out of my way!" Picking up both fallen weapons, the ghoul reloaded them as he dashed beneath the staircases, moving into a small room whose door had been left open. For lack of a better option or ideas, Charles adjusted his Confederate cap and followed, shotgun in hands.

The small room seemed to be some sort of security area with several monitors set up within, showcasing fuzzy, black and white, security footage of the surround rooms. A vast array of weapons, from knives to mines and even a minigun rested along a row of sturdy tables. The ghoul slipped a fresh magazine into his service rifle, glancing upward towards the left-most screens. "They're coming in through the upper left-wing, above the dinning room," He stated without looking backward, as if entirely confident Charles would have followed him.

 _To be fair, I did…_

"There's a lot of them," Charles mused, feeling the nervous tingling along his neck he always did when he knew combat was inevitable, "What'd you do to piss all these guys off so much?"

"Not a bloody clue," the ghoul snarled, singing his weapon across his back and reaching for a finely made sniper rifle resting in the room's corner. He gestured towards the monitors again, "I'm going to hold the right wing, seeing as more of those bastards are trying to break in that way. You head up the stairs and set off the charges I've left behind, seal up their entrance." His ghoulish companion gave a nasty, predatory smile, "That'll make them think twice about going after Desmond Lockheart, the stupid bastards." He dashed out the security room rifle in check, whistling loudly. Charles was about to question the purpose of that action when a set of barking voices reached his ears. Evidently, Mr. Lockheart had several dogs for company.

Not sure entirely what made this his fight, but feeling the desperate demand in the back of his waking mind for more moonshine, Charles found himself moving determinedly towards the left wing, passing through a doorframe without a door into a dinning area.

The surrounding cupboards remained filled with plates and cutlery, every set appearing very old and expensive. His mouth watered involuntarily at the wine-rack, with plenty of bottles remaining; though all were dusty they were clearly still corked, thus preserving their value. An old grandfather clock had long ago died in the corner, sitting shabbily beneath a framed painting of famed Confederate General Robert E. Lee. In the center of the room was a massive oaken table, with places set to confidently seat at least twenty.

Charles was so taken by the ancient grandeur of the room he almost missed the crude hacking noises in the floor above. Wood splinters and sawdust rained down on the table, before the ceiling gave way beneath the barrage of axe blows. A tribal, clad in fur and mirelurk shells, plummeted downward onto the furniture below, massive axe held in bulky hands. The table cracked and broke beneath him, scattering china and silverware to the floor without dignity. His gaze turned towards the Lone Wanderer with sickening glee, crudely maintained axe gleaming in the light of burning gas lamps.

Yet the expression didn't last long. Charles put the shotgun to his shoulder, took aim, and pulled the trigger, twice. Both shells boomed in the enclosed space, rocketing across the ground and slamming into the bulky foe. One round struck him in the shoulder joint, blasting the left arm clean off the body. The other took the tribal in the torso, leaving the formerly intimidating-looking bruiser a bloodstain on the once fine floor.

A chorus of heavy footfalls sounded on the staircase at the opposite end of the dinning hall, accompanied by screams and war whoops that didn't take a genius to determine their origin. A veritable pack of tribals rushed down the stairs towards him, firing a combination of shotguns, lever-actions rifles, hunting weapons, even what appeared to be a solitary musket, in his general direction. Diving for the floor, Charles moved to take what shelter could be had from the shattered table.

Bullets and shells exploded all around him, splintering the plank floors and putting fresh holes into the ancient walls. Perhaps, most tragically of all, a stray bullet carelessly fired from a hunting rifle struck the rack of wine bottles behind Charles, shattering several in a burst of glass and alcohol. Watching the purple liquid stain the floor like so much blood, Charles howled with rage, firing his combat shotgun in the direction of the onrushing mob with as much gusto as his shaking hands could muster.

Sadly, the weapon's efficiency was greatly reduced by the distance, his assault managing to fell only one attacker. Dropping the shotgun without switching the magazine, the Lone Wanderer drew the lever-action rifle from his back, and drove the lever down. The weapon was superbly balanced, its plain make hiding excellent craftsmanship. The first round slipped into the chamber with a deadly click, held tightly in the barrel, ready to be let loose. Feeling empowered by the weapon, Charles rose, bullets and shells whizzing past him as he did.

He took aim and fired, the bullet tearing through the chest of the leading tribal. The Vault Dweller hammered down on the lever again, firing his rifle with similar accuracy. That bullet also found its mark, tearing both headdress, and hair, from an onrushing foe brandishing a double-barrel shotgun. Even as this second victim fell Charles was acting, releasing a third shot, just as deadly as the first two.

Still, the enraged tribals powered forward, howling warcrys to their ancient gods and wishing death upon him, death that'd find him soon enough if he didn't act. His rifle simply wasn't enough firepower. Though it pained him to use one of the grenades he'd brought, a combination of recklessness and poor-planning meant if he didn't use it now, he'd likely never have the opportunity later.

Dropping to a knee, the man's hand fell to one of the small objects on his belt, snatching the grenade free he primed and tossed the explosive into the onrushing mob. Ducking behind the shattered table, Charles covered his head with his hands, pulling the cap as deep against his head as it would go.

The explosion rocked the room, blood and limbs raining down around him as tribals screamed, not in anger, but pain. Rising once again, lever-action rifle in hand, Charles shot down the two survivors with a killer's precision. Pausing only long enough to retrieve a few replacement rounds from pouches and haversacks, Charles strode up the stairs, moving towards the entrance point.

* * *

The next twenty minutes were a bloody slog, with numerous shrieking primitives throwing themselves against Charles only being beaten backward each time. He primed explosives, fought alongside this Desmond Lockheart and his dogs, even falling through the floor into the cellar at one point. The cellar, as it turned out, was even better stocked with wine than the simple dinning room rack had been, a fact that suddenly inspired him to fight all the more.

Despite several close calls, and a few instances of hand to hand, Charles made his way around the interior of the mansion with all limbs still attached to his body. The bloodbath finally reached its crescendo with Desmond and Charles taking up position in the entrance hall where the Lone Wanderer had first entered. The tribals fell upon the mansion like waves, battering through the doors, blasted aside by mines, shot at with rifles, mauled by dogs and hacked down with axes. Even so, on they came, despite loses, as if driven by a fanatical desire to rid Point Lookout of Calvert Mansion.

Yet even fanaticism can only carry one for so long and at last, Charles found himself standing, exhausted but mostly unharmed with Wild Bill's sidearm in one hand and his trench knife in the other. Desmond seemed likewise healthy, holding his sniper rifle and sneering over his glasses with an entirely board expression.

For a moment, the two simply stood in silence, both awed, and in Charles' case, a little horrified, by the carnage they'd wreaked. Finally, after that silence had worn out its welcome, Desmond spoke. "So," he growled, "My hero eh? Think you saved me in the nick of time? Not bleeding likely, I had everything under control and didn't even have to fire up the failsafe." The level of sarcasm dripping from the ghoul's voice offended Charles more than he cared to let on. His mouth opened to deliver a stinging remark, but the ghoul kept speaking, "But that would have done a real number on some of the paintings, so it's just as well you were here. Name's Desmond, if you didn't figure that out already."

"Huh," Charles stated, as causally as he could, "I'm pretty sure I just saved your life there, hardass." Once upon a time he might have let Desmond's arrogance go, but he'd given up the hero business after Purity, and really didn't care to pick it up again.

By way of response, the well-dressed ghoul merely laughed, shaking his head, "Kid, you're adorably naive, reminds me of the younger days. Still, wouldn't want to waste my only failsafe on the ignorant savages we just dispatched, so I'll give you that one free."

"You said something about not knowing why they came after you?" The Lone Wanderer probed, deciding to let the whole matter go, arguing with the suited ghoul about who was the bigger badass seeming a waste of everyone's time.

"That's right, I've got no clue. I'd normally chalk it up to that crazy religion of theirs, but I'm not a betting man. This is the third time in a month I've been attacked and, whether I've pissed off a man or god, I intend to set them straight. Permanently."

"Could this be about the mansion?" Despite his initial desire to grab the yeast and batteries and get out, the old spirit of curiosity Charles had tried so hard to bury came crawling back like an angry Deathclaw, "Maybe it's the house itself that's pissed them off, not the occupant."

"I don't know, place was abandoned when I got here," Desmond mused, stroking his chin with a free hand, "If it was the house, they'd have burned it down ages ago, and, while there's plenty of stuff stored away here, none of it would be useful to a pack of crazed inbreds." The disdain in his voice was evident, the ghoul attempting to look down the hole that had once been a nose in an attempt to display the utmost contempt for those who'd besieged his temporary residence.

"Could it be the tribals?" The Vault Dweller further probed, "Maybe something about them caused this attack?"  
"They're a bunch of crazed morons who worship a spirit! What the hell about them makes a lick of goddamn sense?" And that seemed all he'd say on the subject.

 _Getting information that might help would be easier if you weren't such an asshole._

"Look, clearly you want something from me…" Charles felt the old familiar song and dance number he'd done a thousand and one times back in the Capital Wasteland creep back into his actions, and yet, he'd managed to harden his heart enough to follow up the statement with, "What's in it for me if I do whatever it is?"

The ghoul responded to his question, by way of another, "What's the difference between you and me kid? What makes a gifted killer like yourself into a rock hard bastard like me?" He paused and then snarled loudly, "Training, you ignorant son of a bitch! Training! I've got a hundred years of experience on you and don't you ever forget it! You stick with me and you get a free master's class in doing what needs to be done." He paused, before giving a ghoul's yellowed smile, "But I like your spunk kid, that's for damn sure. Here's the deal, these grubby mud-lovers want me dead but aren't decent enough folk to extend me the courtesy of explaining why. You slip into their little gated community and figure out why that is and you'll get plenty of reimbursement for your efforts. Plus, who knows what kind of treasures those savages have hidden away within?" The smile turned very sly, as if suggesting robbing the tribals blind would be a simple affair.

"But how do I do that, exactly?"

"You knock on the gate."

"Really?" Charles struggled to believe it, "I go up to the Cathedral and knock?"

"Look," Desmond growled exasperatedly, "These are people who think cutting a hole in their skull expands their minds, they aren't exactly geniuses. You ask nicely and I'm sure they'll bring you in. Once there, you talk to the bigwig in charge and find out why they're after me. I just need information so their is no need for violence…yet." There was another pause, "Interested?"  
The old Charles would have jumped on board, the old Charles would have rushed out that door immediately to help with whatever a stranger needed, uncaring for danger or want of a reward. But the old Charles was dead, he'd perished in the Jefferson Memorial with his father, watching his old man gasp his last from the other side of the glass. What remained of him had been shot by his childhood love when she…She…

Despite his desire to tell Desmond to go screw himself, the best he managed was, "I'll think about it. If you excuse me, I came to Calvert for a few things of my own, and I'm going to go get them." He turned sharply on his heel away from Desmond and moved towards the basement. First he'd fill a dufflebag with yeast and batteries, then, he'd drink wine until he passed out. If he woke up the next morning he'd determine what to do next.

* * *

 **AN: And enter Desmond! A rock-hard old bastard with an agenda all his own, I struggled for some time with writing him but finally decided on a compromise. I'd like to take a moment to think the one guest who reviews every chapter but due to the guest features can't receive a personal PM, thank you! And a big thank you to everyone who follows, favs and reviews this story, your support keeps me going! Until Next time  
**


	6. The Shack

_"Charlie!" The voice hammered through the stupor of his sleep-addled brain, "Charlie wake up! Your dad's gone! Jonas… he's dead… They just kept hitting him and wouldn't stop… You need to get out of here, now!"_

The Lone Wanderer's eyes snapped open, instincts refusing to allow the memory of that morning a foothold in his mind, dream or not. He could still see every inch of Amata's face, her expression awash with concern; hear the shouting and blaring alarm sounding throughout the entire Vault. The feel of the ten millimeter in his hand, how cold the barrel of the weapon was when he held it, the kickback when he fired it for the first time, the sight of those bullets tearing through Officer Kendall, a man he'd known his whole life. The spray of brilliant crimson across the walls and floor…The warmth of the blood as it splashed across his hand, such a contrast to the cold steel…

Maybe it was the cramped dankness of the cellar that reminded him of the Vault, maybe it was chem withdrawal. Regardless of what cause the dream it was an unwelcome intrusion, one so unwelcome Charles decided to expand limited resources to eliminate the problem.

He reached into one of the front pouches on his rumpled vest, withdrawing the dose of Med-x he'd brought along in case of an emergency such as the one he found himself in. The cool rush of sensation drove the images away and quickly, for which he was most grateful. Leaning back against the wine-rack, Charles appreciated the deadening of limbs as well as memory, because his head was throbbing, the migraine hitting him harder than any Super Mutant ever had while the stiffness in his limbs from passing out on the cold stone floor proved nearly intolerable. To make matters worse, the dampness was affecting the shoulder injury given to him by the swampfolk on his second day spent on the island, something Med-x proved plenty happy to help with.

Scattered around his prone form were numerous discarded, empty bottles of wine, drained by a lonely man in the prime of his youth and a dufflebag filled with as many batteries and sacks of yeast he could find in the mansion. In truth, there was far more than he could carry of both things scattered throughout the house if he cared to look, something he'd keep in the back of his mind if he intended to make a second batch of moonshine, and was willing to put up with Desmond's company once again to get it. Additionally, had managed to loot some wild punga fruit from among the tribals who'd attacked Calvert, though not nearly enough for the recipe it was a nice bonus. He still needed plenty more of the fruit to make the batch of 'shine, leaving finding that fruit his top priority.

Standing rather too quickly, a wave of dizzying nausea rushed over him, nearly driving Charles to his knees. The Vault Dweller was certain if it hadn't been for the Med-x he'd have hit the floor harder than he did the previous evening. Leaning against the nearest wine rack until the world stopped spinning, Charles readjusted his Confederate cap, which had come loose during his near tumble. With balance finally restored, Charles added a few bottle of wine to his dufflebag, took up his lever-action rifle and, using the butt of the weapon as a crutch in case of another dizzying spell, hobbled his way out of the cellar.

The mid-morning sun was high in the sky, rays of light shining through the dirty mansion windows, each beam enhanced by the intensity of his hangover. Throwing a hand in front of his face in a futile attempt to block the light, Charles stumbled towards the marble staircase, avoiding the varying pools of dry and semi-dry blood through titanic effort. Plopping himself down on those steps, head still pounding, the Lone Wanderer determined to put some protein in his body before he puked. Withdrawing a can of Pork N' Beans and a few cubes of dried iguana meat, the Vault Dweller punched a hole in the former with his trench knife. After properly opening the can, the man tossed the discard tin disc to the floor, mixing the iguana into the original contents for added flavor. He was just reaching for the travel spork he kept for such occasions, prepared to dig into his breakfast, when a gravely voice he'd come to recognize cut through the early morning stupor, "That's goddamn rude. I don't go to your house and dump shit on the floor."

Desmond Lockheart, dressed exactly as he was the day before, held the lid in one hand, an expression of pure non-amusement evident on his corpse-like face. Gesturing with the spork, the Vault Dwller responded, "It goes great with dead bodies." Digging into the can with gusto, the first mouthful of beans and meat was far more heavenly than the meal had any right to be, yet the man's stomach accepted it happily.

Tossing the flattened tin at Charles with an adamant growl, Desmond snarled, "That's not the point! I'm trying to keep the place respectable." Shaking his head bemusedly, Charles took the lid and stowed it within the recesses of his dufflebag.

The second sporkful was just as amazing as the first.

"Do I have any wine left, sleeping beauty?" The ghoul enquired, only halfway sarcastic, evidently satisfied with the younger man's decision to take the can back. He continued to ignore the few dead tribals neither man had bothered to move since the previous day's pitched final battle.

Rubbing the back of his head sheepishly, Charles stated, "I left about half of what I found behind," knowing that the ghoul's security camera likely included a view of the cellar where he'd spent the night, "Though, I wish I'd brought a sleeping bag. The stone can't be good for my back."

Desmond chortled, "Trying being a few hundred years, then we'll talk." Shaking his head, the ghoul asked without bluster, out of the blue "Why the hell are you even here, kid? You aren't a treasure hunter."

Suddenly very defensive of himself Charles rebuffed the accusation coldly, "I'm here for the loot, and the violence. Just wanted to explore and do some damage."

"Just get over her go home," Desmond growled, cracking his knuckles dramatically, "Seriously, you turned for hours last night and drank half a damn cellar's worth of wine. Whoever this bird is you're disagreeing with just tell her to go to hell and move on."

"Why are you here?" Charles snarled back, shoveling pork, beans and iguana into his mouth savagely in an attempt to distract from his refusal to answer the personal question, "You clearly don't want to be."

"I'm exactly where I need to be kid," the ghoul announced with such certainty that the Lone Wanderer was inclined to believe him. Looking somehow past the man, as if he were beneath notice, Desmond asked, "Have you considered my proposal? I'm growing old over here waiting…well, not really." Glancing down at his corpse-like hands, a sly smile overtook cracked lips, "Aside from the lack of skin, ghouldom is better than anyone seemed to think."

Trying to keep his gaze directed towards the floor so as to avoid another confrontation with this surprisingly perceptive killer, though admittedly it wasn't hard to determine something was wrong with him, Charles made a large deal of slow deliberate chewing. "Not sure," he shrugged, "I've been killing well enough on my own."

There was a throaty chortle erupting from the suited ghoul, the ancient man shaking his head, "You think you're a hardass kid, I get it." He waved a skinless hand dismissively, "Let me know how that works out for you. Or don't, and I'll get the next idiot who stumbles in here to do it."

"You have no idea what I've been through," Charles responded with a snarl, rising to his feet aggressively, can in one hand, spork in the other. "What I've lost, what I've found, what I've done." He squinted, trying to stare clean through the arrogant ghoul as Desmond had done to him, "Hell, I might surprise you." The direct challenge was intended to be as obvious as possible, letting the ghoul know his human counterpart was neither cowed nor intimidated.

"Go home kid," Desmond responded dismissively, "You aren't cut out for this life, you know it, I know it."

The two men stared at each other for a moment and then Charles took action. Without a word he finished the can, ensuring he scraped out every last bean or hunk of pork. When he was certain the tin cylinder was empty he dropped it at Desmond's feet, or, attempted too.

The ghoul's hand snaked outward, catching the object before it struck the floor and shoved it into Charles's chest with ferocity that shocked the young vault dweller. "Don't, test me," he growled, his voice low, black and deadly. "Take your garbage with you on the way out." Charles wanted to return some kind of argument, yet Desmond's intensity was more intimidating than anyone he'd met, including Super Mutant Butchers, an actual super villain and Stanislaus Braun. In that moment he stood frozen as Desmond growled out the words, "Do. Not. Push. Me."

Without offering further resistance, Charles placed the can within his dufflebag and slunk towards the door, lever-action rifle in hand. Before he'd left the building, a confident voice stated, "I'll still be here when you finally come back with what I want to know."

Slamming the double doors behind him, Charles stomped out into Point Lookout, the morning sun's intense gaze deflected by the peak of his cap. His cheeks burned with embarrassment, shame hanging over his body like a cloud. Desmond had sent him scurrying, running off like a pathetic errand boy, an intern hired for the dirty work. In that moment, Charles determined to stick it to the ghoul and do things his own way.

"I don't need him," the Lone Wanderer growled, dropping the empty can and lid on Calvert's doorstep with a satisfying ting. Walking away from the house with all the confidence he could drive into his nineteen year frame, Charles powered his way back towards the motel. He might not need Desmond, but if he was going further into the swamp hunting punga, he wanted his sniper rifle.

* * *

 _"Come with me, Amata please!" Charles was begging her, holding the ten millimeter pistol in his hand, waving the gun about frantically. The weapon was as poor a fit for the young chaplain-to-be as the security armor he'd awkwardly shoved over his vault suit._

 _Everything held a nightmarish tint, the security guards trying to kill him, radroaches scurrying rampant throughout the corridors. Jonas' body, Amata's imprisonment by her own father and Officer Mack…Yet it was happening, this was no dream. He'd caved a man's head in with a security baton…Him, Charlie the chaplain, had beaten a man to death with a tube of steel._

 _Worse than all that, Dad was gone, vanished in the night and inadvertently killing all those people when the radroaches swarmed the vault. Charles was ripped asunder by Amata's announcement of his father's disappearance. How could he have left his son behind? He must've had reasons; Charles had to believe that was true. His father was the greatest man he knew, he wouldn't leave unless he really wanted his son to follow, it was just some kind of test, had to be. Nothing in the world would take James away from his son forever, he'd promised._

 _Charlie managed to arrive at the Vault's entrance, blood dripping from his helmet where he'd headbutted an angry dweller A crude bandage was wrapped around his right leg after a radroach took a piece out of him while a similar dressing sat on the left arm where a bullet left similar aftereffects. The jacket Butch had given him, the irony of such a gesture not lost on the young man, was stuffed into his dufflebag, the leather no doubt wrinkling but the time to fold it wasn't something he currently possessed._

 _His hands were shaking, shivers running down his body like lightning. He tried not to think about how many people had died in the past few minutes…How many of them had been by him, or by radroaches Dad accidentally let into the Vault…. One of the dwellers, he'd been running too quickly to get a good look at who, screamed hatred at him, loudly crying it was all his fault, him and James. The death of every single person in the Vault that day was on him. Tears ran down Charles' bearded face at those stinging words, agitating already immense feelings of guilt and horror at the patches of red staining the pristine blue and yellow painted steel within his beloved Vault 101._

 _But at long last, despite the carnage, death and violence, he made his way to escape, baton still in hand, only to find Amata already there, her hands flying across the access panel trying to slide the massive door aside. If Charles thought his emotions were a mess, he couldn't imagine his girlfriend's. She'd been strapped down in the interrogator's chair, with not only the approval of her father but with his active participation! Watching as Mack beat her and would have kept doing Charles hadn't burst into the room and put a permanent stop to it…_

 _"Amata? You made it!" His tone changed on a dime, the mere sight of his beloved improving his mood slightly and on a day like it was he'd take any potential good thing. "I was worried you wouldn't…"_

 _She wasn't looking at him, even as the massive door swung aside and she no longer needed the control panel she kept her gaze low, a gesture not striking Charles as a good sign. Still, he was nothing if not optimistic and therefore boldly announced, "Great work Amata! Now let's get the hell out of here!"_

 _She didn't move, didn't speak. Finally, her slender shoulders slumped and she said simply, "Charlie…I…I can't go with you."_

 _The words hit him like a bulkhead. "What?" His eyes were blurry again but he refused to let go of any tears they held. He wouldn't let her see him like that. "Why not?"  
"Charlie…" She murmured softly, maintaining her composure with the greatest effort, even as her own tears began to leak down her face. "The Vault is in chaos, and my father is loosing his mind someone…" Her voice caught in her throat, but somehow she blundered on slowly, "Someone has to stay behind and make sure 101 stays standing. He'll listen to me Charlie, he has too. I'm the only one who can make him stop."_

 _"Forget the Vault and come with me," Charles pleaded, moving closer to her while yanking the security guard helm from his head and tossing it to the floor. "Amata, I love you." It wasn't the first time he'd said those four words in that specific combination to her but it was without a doubt the most potent._

 _"Charlie…" She murmured, the tears flowing down her cheeks in full force now, "I'm sorry. I just can't."_

 _Charles squared his shoulders, crossed the room, grabbed Amata by the waist and kissed her with every ounce of ferocity in his young body. The Overseer's daughter melted in his arms, kissing him back with all the passion and determination of two lovers who may never meet again. Pulling away from her reluctantly at long last, Charles looked her dead in the eye, "I'll find my father and I'll bring him back. I'll come back to you Amata, you have my word."_

 _At the time he didn't notice it but during later recollections of that moment he noted that Amata didn't respond, as if she knew something he didn't…As if she expected to never see him again._

* * *

The sniper rifle felt good in his hands, cold and deadly. The Med-x rushed throughout his body, calming frayed nerves, lessening the stinging cuts of brush or bug and, most importantly, driving away old memories that wouldn't otherwise let him alone. No matter which way one sliced it, stopping off at his motel room had been a good decision.

Replenishing his foodstocks, filling up the empty cola bottle with water and dumping the bag of yeast and batteries within the closet had been a start. After that, he'd taken a dose of the glorious chem now running throughout his body and replaced his shotgun with the sniper rifle he so valued. The lever-action weapon, having shown its value during the engagement within Calvert Mansion, remained his primary backup.

He'd set out without a clear plan in mind, merely picking a direction and going. The punga, it seemed, tended to grow in the damp, marshier areas of Point Lookout, so deeper into the swamp Charles went, pausing every so often to scan the horizon through the scope, searching for potential ambush from tribals and swampfolk. However, fate favored the young man because none of the inbreds made any offensives, or were seen for that matter. The worst foe he faced was the swarming cloud of insects who'd been either lucky or unlucky enough depending on one's mindset, to avoid mass mutation by radiation. Their tiny bites aggravated his condition all the more, drops of salty sweat stinging those fresh wounds with each agonizing drip down his face and neck.

Yet Charles pressed on, gathering the odd wild punga he stumbled across on the muddy trails his well-worn boots follower. Once again, fortune must have held a special place in her heart for him, as, someway past the moonshiner's shack, he stumbled across another ramshackle building. A crudely manufactured wooden fence surrounded a somewhat cultivated patch of wild punga, attempting to keep at least some semblance of order in the otherwise untamable Point Lookout. The shack was far smaller than Marguerite's, lacking any of the warm comforting glow held by the woman's home. Its windows and screen door were darkened, the crumbling boards feeling restrictive and oppressive, permeating an air of subtle dread.

The two occupants of the building must have been the malformed swampfolk working among the punga, their coveralls filthy and tattered. Yet despite bulbous growths and deformed limbs, the pair moved hoe and shovel with grace seeming impossible for their bulk. The cleanliness of the scope provided the perfect opportunity to observe the true hideousness of the beasts closely; though it was an observation he could have done without.

The punga was sitting there, taunting him. It'd be an easy matter to slot both swampfolk and take the crop. It was plenty of punga, more than enough for a batch, with no need to make his way towards the Cathedral. Marguerite's warnings about killing the swampfolk for their supplies came floating back into his mind but he shut them down. This was a different circumstance, already there had been altercations between him and the inbreeds, he'd killed two bands already. One attack on their food wouldn't implicate Marguerite, just him, which already was the case.

 _I'll burn the area when I'm done, the fire will cover my tracks, they'll never know it was me or what I came for._

His arguments now silenced, Charles went to work. Setting the reticule over the melon-shaped head of the first swampfolk, the Vault Dweller breathed out once and pulled the trigger. No matter how many times he fired the sniper rifle the kickback always took him by surprise, the butt of the weapon driving into his shoulder, aggravating the injured limb. Still, what he experienced was nothing compared to the intended target. The massive slug tore clean through the swampfolk's face, popping the head like a balloon. The creature hit the ground before the other noticed he had fallen.

Through the scope, Charles could see the survivor looking around rapidly, wide eyes gazing at everything and nothing in an attempt to locate the mysterious assailant who'd so easily struck down his friend. Charles response was reloading the rifle, adjusting his aim slightly and pulling the trigger again. This second swampfolk fell with as much speed as the first.

Smoke gently wafted upward from the barrel of his weapon, but the Lone Wanderer remained prone, ignoring itching from the area's fauna and the general dampness of the swampy ground. He'd survived enough close encounters across the Pitt and DC to know better than to rush a potential ambush half-cocked.

He waited for several minutes, seven exactly according to his Pip-boy and when nothing emerged from the building he determined the two overall-wearing corpses laying in the punga patch were the only ones calling the area home, or did at that particular moment in time. Reloading the magazine in the sniper rifle, Charles rose, replacing the long ranged weapon with its lever-action cousin, moving in cautiously.

While nothing erupted from within the shack he still couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Worried that another band of swampfolk may return at any moment, Charles moved quickly into the punga patch and got to work. Still, he wasn't so rushed as to avoid searching the bodies, effort rewarded with a small glass bottle of whiskey, what appeared to be a combat-ready bowie knife along with two doses of jet and one of psycho between the two bodies.

"You guys sure like your chems huh?" He asked the corpses without fanfare, looking down at the small pile of loot he'd acquired, "That's one thing we've got in common at least…sadly." Neither body seemed particularly inclined to answer. Still, pragmatism held his hand and, unlike the mentats, he pocketed the psycho and jet, feeling perhaps they could be traded to Panada for credit it nothing else.

The task of harvesting the fruit proved more physically demanding than he'd imagined, simply due to the sheer volume of it. There wasn't a point in leaving any behind, after all, particularly if he wanted a particularly large batch of moonshine. So, trench knife in hand, he cut loose as much of the punga as he could carry, slinging fruit after fruit into the bag he'd brought with him for just that purpose. His mind and body went robotic, devoted to the task of harvesting as much as he could in as short a time as possible. Charles constantly peered over his shoulder between pickings, both into the swamp in general and towards the shack, which continued to emit that very oppressive feeling of dread no rational argument could shake.

 _Not that I have many rational cells left in my brain after all the shit I've pumped into it._

Satisfied he'd gathered enough punga, Charles slung the sack over his shoulder and moved towards the ramshackle building, determined to set the place ablaze in an attempt to cover his tracks. And yet, the closer he got to the ominous door, the less he actually wanted to go inside. He hadn't brought anything capable of setting fire to the structure with him, and something about the eerie nature of the curtained windows made him feel perhaps a burning wasn't necessary after all. He'd just leave the farm alone, and disappear into the swamp, simple as that.

Unfortunately for his sanity, the house, it seemed, didn't want to let him.

He was just turning to flee when he heard the screen door fly open, banging against the wall with such ferocity the Vault Dweller actually thought it had been ripped free of its hinges. A ferocious, blood-curdling howl of anguish and rage split the air, accompanying the slamming of the door. Charles tried to get the lever-action rifle aiming towards his unknown ambusher, but was far too slow.

A massive hand grabbed his shoulder, fingers though vaguely human feeling misshapen yet impossible strong, dug deep into his flesh. Suddenly he was off his feet, the massive hand propelling him inside the building. The attacker released him and Charles went flying across the filthy living room smashing into the far kitchen wall with pain entirely reminiscent of when he'd hit the covered bridge. He fell onto the counter and sink, fall broken by a mess that was dark, sticky, squishy and foul-smelling. While parts of the jumbled garbage were hard, protruding sharply into his body, others were slimy and soft, like a rubber pillow dipped in slime.

It was then he finally managed to get a good look at his assailant, and what he saw chilled him to the bone. The swampfolk illuminated by the light of the noon sun streaming through the open door stood easily seven and a half feet, towering above the other man. His head was entirely bald, with several notable growths protruding outward at differing angles above a crocked nose and jagged, rat-like teeth. Unlike the other swampfolk he'd seen this creature was massive, his entire huge frame rippling with muscle, save a sagging paunch that the stained wife-beater and plaid shirt couldn't contain. The shabby ruins of a pair of old boots sat tattered on his feet, malformed toes bursting and shoving their way free. His left arm was a mass of overgrown tumors and tissue, the limb more resembling a tree stump than actual human arm, the right however, despite being long and gangly held more recognizable characteristics. Clutched between beefy fingers was the long, wooden handle of a woodcutter's axe, the crude iron head dripping with fresh blood.

Momentarily puzzled by the existence of blood on the weapon, noting he was entirely uninjured save the wall impact, Charles came to the sinking, horrific realization of what he was lying in. Getting to his hands and knees, Charles screamed with utter horror at what occupied that kitchen. The countertop was awash with gore and bone as the remains of several human bodies lay about, some hacked to pieces, others mashed into little more than paste, ribcages and legs discarded like filthy dishes, with several cubes of human flesh placed in a cake pan, ready to go in the oven as a mockery of all decency.

Charles couldn't help himself and puked up his guts. Yet the swampfolk wasn't done with him yet. Rushing across the room with a mad bellow, the creature swung the axe overhead, trying to split the Lone Wanderer in half like so many of the surrounding corpses. Panicked adrenalin did wonders for the body, powering Charles off the counter and rolling to the floor, grabbing for anything as he fell.

The axe splintered the countertop where the man had just been, throwing up a small wave of gore, spraying blood and bone across filthy walls. Charles' fingers managed to find a rib, one sharpened by what seemed suspiciously like gnawing. Trying not to think too deeply about what he was holding Charles rose sharply and drove the hunk of bone into the bulging stomach of his attacker.

While the swampfolk squealed in pain after the attack he didn't seem overly affected, swinging his massive left hand backward in a slap. The force of the blow broke Charles' jaw in two places throwing him into the standing closet braced against the wall. The doors shattered, dumping the Lone Wanderer unceremoniously into the confined space in a tangle of limbs and pain.

 _I think I can justify a stimpak after this…_

Yet the horror wasn't over. The closet was already occupied, by a drying, headless corpse, likely a tribal judging by the garb, hung up on a hook like a normal person would do with a ham. The force of his impact into the closet snapped the hook free, dumping the body onto an already panicked and injured Charles. The dead man's limbs tangled with his own as the Vault Dweller desperately tried to struggle his way free, trying not to think about the blood and flesh currently coating his body.

The swampfolk turned his attention towards the man floundering in the closet with a pig-like squeal, "Yur gonna git it now!" Lumbering forward, ignoring the rib protruding from his stomach, the hick slashed towards the cupboard with his axe, "I'm gonna split yuh in half!"

With one final burst of panicked energy, Charles managed to dislodged the corpse and fling it into the massive swampfolk. The axe, instead of taking the Lone Wanderer's head off, struck the body in the waist, bisecting it rather neatly. The action proved distraction enough for Charles to wiggle out of the now demolished closet and beneath the swampfolk's swinging arms.

Dashing past a rickety table, the Lone Wanderer knocked it over in an attempt to buy valuable time while reaching for the lever-action rifle on his back, knowing full well his life depended on the next few seconds. The massive swampfolk was quicker than he looked, spinning around on his tattered heel and glaring across the room, murder in his eyes. "Ug-Qualtoth'll eat yur soul!" He howled towards the escaping dinner. Whipping the axe with his mighty arm, the swampfolk sent the weapon end over end across the room. Dropping to the floor, Charles watched the weapon go just over his head, slamming into the wall behind him, splitting plaster and wood while wedging itself tightly where it struck.

Charles knew his foe would be across the room in seconds and take less than that to beat his head in. Survival demanded immediate action he wasn't happy about. Reaching into a pouch, the Lone Wanderer removed one of the small canisters of jet, shook it once and huffed it.

The pain from inhaling chems through a broken jaw proved so intense Charles only kept himself from blacking out with the greatest effort. Yet, despite the pain and his fears of another addiction, the chem did its job. His senses heightened, time slowed to a blur, each jiggling bulge on the onrushing swampfolk visible as the deformed creature barreled across the floor, kicking aside bones and chunks of flesh. With the slowed feelings brought on by the chem getting the lever-action rifle off his back was a simple matter. The weapon was in his hands, deadly weight proudly testifying to its true purpose.

Snapping off a quick shot, Charles watched the bullet impact his foe's massive left arm, with no result aside from a spurt of blood. He hammered down on the lever, dipped the rifle and fired a carefully aimed bullet into the massive thing's leg. This round tore through the creature's knee, the effect of the jet lending a supernaturally slow motion to the happenings.

The sudden crippling of a key limb sent the swampfolk into a tumble, arms flying to the side as the creature attempted to catch itself on something. Its body was exposed, and even as the jet high faded away, Charles took aim again. That extra second of laser-eyed focus paid off, because when Charles squeezed the trigger the bullet burst forth with the speed and rage of an angry radscorpion. That bullet tore through the fleshy neck keeping the swampfolk's unusually small head attached in a spray of blood, disappearing into the kitchen even as the chem's effects ended.

The swampfolk fell, putting both hands around his neck in an attempt to stop the blood leaking so grotesquely from his throat. Charles dropped the lever again, braced the butt of his rifle against his shoulder and fired. His shot rang true, tearing through the swampfolk's bald head and splattering his brains across a carpet so stained with human remains the fresh patch blended right in. The beast's eyes rolled up into his head and he fell back convulsing a few times as a now defunct nervous system tried to compensate for the horrific damage it had suffered.

Charles stood, the sole survivor of the battle once again, sucking in air as sweat dripped down his body. The pain radiating from his jaw was too much, too brutal to allow any other kind of sensation; it had to be dealt with immediately.

Reaching a bloodied hand into the pouch where his stimpaks were kept, Charles' shaking fingers managed, by sheer dumb luck to grab one of the needed medical items and pull it free. Sinking the needle into the first vein he could find, the man closed his eyes and felt his jaw snap ever so slowly, painfully back into place.

Yet, when the pain finally receded, Charles was left with something far worse than physical agony. The horror of what he'd seen, what he'd touched, swarmed over him, assaulting his mind and body with more ferocity than any swampfolk. The gore, coating his form, stunk while the mess of human remains left his skin slimy and putrid. The bile rose in his throat again, a sickening feeling of disgust, shame and utter horror. He needed to get out…

He turned and dashed for the screen door, stopping only long enough to grab the bag of fruit he'd battled for and his cap, fallen in the scuffle. His legs and arms pumped, whole body thrown into the very real task of finding something, anything, he could use to clean himself.

Point Lookout leered down, every tree held a mangled corpse, every shadow was a snarling face, the blood on his skin called to him, taunting him, telling him this was who he was, a filthy, disgusting, scavenger, good for nothing. Still, he pressed on.

Finally, after running for time uncountable with a mind whirling in animal panic, the Lone Wanderer stumbled onto a stream. It was muddy, coated in a thick layer of slime and overflowing with foul-stinking swamp water, yet to Charles, it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Dumping his equipment at his feet, the man dived headfirst into the creek, letting the filthy water carry away everything that had happened…

* * *

 **AN: Fun fact, the scene in the cabin was actually the first scene I visualized when sat down and actually began to plan out this story. I figured an enemy as iconic as the Tracker shouldn't just show up, big creepy bastards that they are an introduction is needed. Thank you everyone for your continued support of my little story, especially those of you who review! I really appreciate it!  
**

 **And don't worry, Riley is coming up next chapter, I've not forgotten about our favorite luck obsessed mercenary, just want to ensure you all stay hooked. ;)**


	7. Underworld

" Okay everyone, make sure you take your meds," Donavan announced to the, rag-tag group, passing about a small plastic container of Rad-x, a forced smile on his face. "Many ghouls are fine people, but I'd rather not grow a brand new hand out my chest." Taking his own dose, Donavan nodded to the rest and swallowed the pills.

"Damn right about that," Jericho muttered, washing down his Rad-x with a mouthful of rotgut. The bitter flavor of the homemade brew masked the somehow fouler taste of the medication, though if said medication was the difference between a third hand or not Jericho would have taken two dozen pills booze-free.

Riley picked up her portion of Rad-x, given with the pleasant, trademark half smirk that Donavan used to try and deflect anyone from realizing he was a mechanic and not a medic. Off to the side, Sergeant RL-3 muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Bah, the weaknesses of organic life."

Taking several moments to allow the drug a run throughout her body, Riley breathed out once, and waved her three companions into a group huddle. "Alright," she told them in a purely professional tone, "You know why we're here." Donavan and Sarge nodded, while Jericho rolled his eyes lazily. "Chuck needs us, even if he's too damn stubborn and ass-headed to admit it. We're going into Underworld, we'll find Charon, and, with his help, track down our wandering friend." All of them were committed to the task Riley could see it in their eyes. Even Jericho, despite his outwardly bitter cynicism, felt something for the kid from 101.

The museum towered over the surrounding rubble, still giving off an air of magnificence despite its crumbling nature. Yet the exterior, though impressive, was a mere shell, a shield for the thriving community nestled within, Underworld, a sanctuary for the Wasteland's many ghouls who had nowhere else to turn and, in a strange twist of fate, provided that same protection for an injured mercenary. Riley brushed a lock of orange hair out of her eyes while an almost nostalgic feeling rushed over her. She'd first met Chuck in Underworld those many months ago, the young man's concerned features the first thing she saw after opening her eyes…

 _How things have changed since that day. Hell, I owe Doctor Barrows everything. Maybe a fat pile of caps, or the Rangers' service free of charge will begin to pay off my debt. I'd never have met Chuck if not for him…_

Squaring her shoulders, Riley took the lead, clipping her combat helmet into its place on her armor, a deliberate appearance of vulnerability. The ghouls had learned distrust for a reason and even if they recognized certain members of the group, they'd still be a heavily armed party of humans moving towards Underworld, intentions unknown.

Standing outside the massive marble doors, laser rifle held in her hands, wearing a leather motorcycle jacket was a slight, red-headed ghoul who Riley instantly recognized. Willow, Underworld's unofficial sentry had said only a few words to the mercenary captain while she was leaving, and none upon her arrival, mostly due to Riley's then state of unconsciousness. Still, Willow clearly felt comfortable enough with the new arrivals to return the laser rifle to its place on her back. "Holy shit," the young, by ghoul standards, woman croaked in the rough tone of her kind, "You really are still standing. You're a far tougher tourist than I thought."

"I'm no tourist," Riley responded firmly, feeling offended at the casual dismissal of her rather capable weapon skills from Willow, someone the leader of the Rangers was confident she could take.

Jericho responded to her indignation with barking laughter, "Hell, it's true though! I'm a tourist! You're a tourist! Everyone coming to DC's Museum for a visit is a tourist! It's just the way things are." The bluster surprised Riley, who'd never heard Jericho jump to defense of anyone and that rebuttal seemed vaguely close to doing just that.

Willow seemed pleased with the bandit, "I see someone remembered," a yellow smile crossed her face, the obvious happiness Riley found herself unable to ignore. Turning her attention back towards the impromptu squad, Willow asked, "What are you doing back anyway? Where's the blue kid?"

Jericho shrugged his shoulders, moving to the front of the group and, to Riley's great surprise, dropping into a diplomatic role. "He's run off, didn't tell anyone where he went. Orange over here," he jabbed his thumb towards Riley, who was so pleased with the casual comradery between bandit and ghoul she didn't react to the nickname given with disgust, "has her pants in a knot missing his handsome ass and we can't have that can we?"

"He was handsome," Willow purred out in a near reverent tone, "For a smoothskin, that is," She looked down at Jericho as she said it, making it clear that Charles wasn't the only smoothskin the lady ghoul wouldn't mind bumping uglies with. For her part, Riley tried hard not to notice the expression.

"Seeing as the kid was always stopping off with scrap metal and caps, I was wondering if maybe he was hiding with you guys…" Jericho pressed; dropping several tidbits about Charles' casually preformed good deeds that Riley hadn't heard before.

As if to confirm the bandit's analysis, Sarge slid closer to Riley and muttered, "It's true. I was always carrying at least two bags full of scrap! He was always giving it away in Underworld. Absolutely disgusting behavior, disgusting! There's commies needing a good roasting and his constant philandering to these zombies kept getting in the way of that." Apparently, RL-3 wasn't too keen on Underworld; Jericho on the other hand…

"We've only got the two smoothskins living with us now," Willow admitted, plopping her chin into her hands in thought, "But neither of 'em are the kid and I'm guessing you already knew that."

"Hit the nail on the head darling," Jericho announced with that similar leering tone he gave Jenny Stahl. However, unlike Jenny, Willow seemed more than happy with the flirting, her wink towards the ex-raider accompanied by a sly smile.

"You're here to see Charon?" She half-guessed, clearly expecting the answer to be a positive. When Jericho nodded his affirmative, Willow pushed a corpse-like hand against one of the doors, pushing it open. "Alright, seems fine with me." The museum opened before them, interior darkness broken only by the blazing flames of the numerous torches. "Welcome back to Underworld, and please enjoy your stay," Willow announced stepping aside and gesturing for the group to enter.

Without complaint, Sarge floated through the door free of hesitation. With the same stoicism he handled everything else, Donavan followed in silence. Taking up the rear in case of sudden attack, Riley walked behind Jericho as he moved casually into the museum foyer. The ex-raider leaned over to Willow as he went by and Riley caught the ghoul purr in that husky voice, "And welcome back to you there, sexy." The bandit chuckled and tapped Willow on the arm, giving her a sly wink of his own. Riley'd seen enough of Jericho to recognize the man as a lecher, though he'd been smart enough to avoid making any pass at her. Apparently he was devoted enough to hitting on any woman that ghouls were included.

Changing her mind about placement for purely selfish reasons, Riley shoved past the old raider, moving into the entrance hall. The museum had been a place of high culture and art in the world before the bombs, but now it was a crumbling shell of its former glory. The tiled floor was cracked and battered, display cases long ago smashed and looted. Blank spots covered the walls were paintings once rested, while, despite the chaos of the 200 years since the bombs dropped, the tyrannosaurus rex skeleton remained upright and intact.

"The zombies keep it together," Sarge announced, noting Riley's intense gaze on the ancient fossil, "It's some kind of icon to them."

One small question answered, Riley moved towards Underworld proper, Jericho joining the group at last. The door into the museum wing converted to settlement was carved from granite and located within the mouth of the massive stone skull signifying visitors would be entering the, "Afterlife Beliefs and Ideals of Varying Cultures," wing, according to a tattered old museum banner still clinging to life.

While exiting Underworld on her own power for the first time, Riley had been struck by the wit of the corpse-like ghouls, choosing such a place to build their home. Truly, they had a dry, ironic sense of humor. Chuckling to herself, Riley waved her companions towards the stone skull, determined to get the next step of her mission underway.

 _It's funny, if Chuck asks, I can honestly say I went to hell for him! Though, if he really were there, I wouldn't even hesitate._

Jericho kept glancing around the foyer, with a slight smile that seemed to suggest he was trying to hide his genuine pleasure at the museum. "You gotta wonder what this place would've been like before," he mused, tossing the burnt out remains of his last cigarette into one of the blazing garbage bin fires lighting up the entrance area.

Donavan evidently agreed, nodding his helmeted head, "I'd do anything for one tour! Think of the technology! The art!" The techie paused before the dinosaur skeleton, gazing upward in wonder, "Even the scraps are really something."

"Chuck told me one time just how much he loves the pre-war world, real history nerd." Riley shook her head fondly, "Maybe that's partially why he was always coming back here." Rather than let herself be dragged down by that particular trailer of nostalgia, the mercenary focused on that image of Charles grinning happily going on for hours about some ancient thing he'd seen out in the Wasteland. Her resolve to see that face again hardened and she strode forward boldly, pushing the stone, skeletal maw aside. Her combat boots clicked against polished tile floor, echoing throughout the enclosed space. While the four were still clearly within the same building, the contrast between the two areas was remarkable.

It was still somewhat dark, but numerous gaslamps and a few contained can fires provided decent light within the wing. The floors and benches were clean and well maintained, the various paintings on the walls likewise not only intact but clearly cared for. The side doors had been closed off, with visitor information signs reworded to spell out the titles of the various stores and services now housed within, including, one Riley knew intimately. "The Chop Shop," Underworld's resident clinic, where she'd recovered from the Super Mutant attack.

Various ghouls were milling about, in differing styles of dress, ranging from tattered rags to one in partial combat armor. The arrival of the foursome seemed to cause a stir, but none of the ghouls approached, save one. The weathered, craggy fellow seemed old, even for his kind, projecting an aura of quiet, sensible leadership and respectability. He wore a dirty RobCo jumpsuit, stained with grease and oil, more patches than suit. Standing proud and tall, unashamed and unafraid, a dusty mop of light brown hair sitting atop a misshapen head, he approached fearlessly. Wiping his hands clean on a dirty rag, the ghoul greeted them, "Hey there Jericho. Come by yourself this time?" Before the bandit could respond, the mechanic turned his attention to the woman leading the band. "Well I'll be damned, Captain Riley?" He looked her up and down, "You're looking greatly improved from the last time I saw you. How's the Wasteland treating you these days?" After an awkward pause, the ghoul noted, "You don't know my name."

"I'm afraid I don't," Riley responded sheepishly, rubbing a hand through her messy orange hair. After another moment, with Jericho declining to fill in any details, the ghoul mechanic chuckled, "That's quite alright, seeing as they brought you in on a stretcher the first time we'd have met and I was tinkering around with the radiators the second I wouldn't expect you to know me. The name's Winthrop, handyman, jack-of-all-trades and unofficial greeter to our little community." He extended his hand for shake, which Riley took firmly.

"Any friend of Chuck's is a friend of mine," she told him honestly enough after the greeting ended, "He's mentioned you've done plenty to keep the community afloat."

"I do what I can," he admitted sheepishly, as if holding the piping in the ancient building together with scrap, duct tape and elbow grease wasn't extraordinary. "That kid's done plenty, more than enough for this old man to call him ghoul-friend." Winthrop smiled broadly, with a grandfatherly expression suggesting he was hoping to hear wedding bells in the future. "He's a good man, Captain Riley, you're lucky to have him."

"Oh, we're not…" She began to clarify, before the doors to The Chop Shop flew open and another ghoul came rushing out. This new arrival was tall and thin, sunken features gaunt even among ghoul kind. The stained scrubs of a wasteland doctor covered his skinless body, while the face smiled a broad smile Riley instantly recognized.

"Riley!" Doctor Barrows shouted happily, "You're here! And you're doing fine!" The doctor crossed the room in a handful of seconds, wrapping the smaller woman in a tight hug. Doing her best to handle the sudden, and unexpected, action, the woman returned it with the best of her abilities. "I'd heard a few updates on GNN, but I worried you may have been killed at Purity." He paused, "Or more recently, hunting our missing ghoul-friend."

"Thanks for your concern Barrows," Riley responded, breaking the hug off after several moments, "I am doing well, and I owe that to you." Barrows beamed with pride, genuinely pleased that the woman who'd once been under his care was still healthy and thriving.

"I hadn't worked on a human in quite some time," the doctor admitted, "It was a nice challenge."

"We're here looking for Charles, doc," Jericho butted in, the look on his face heavily implying he didn't want to hear any mushy friendship talk, "Someone had this dumbass idea that Charon might know where he's off and hidden himself."

The abruptness of the comment, nearly jolted Barrows backwards, but within a moment his calm demeanor returned and he responded. "Charon's probably the only being alive Charles trusts enough to give such a secret to," he admitted without a high degree of confidence. Winthrop took the opportunity to jump in.

"But he's not been talking," the handy-man said sadly, "He says his contract prevents him from violating his employer's trust, and that his employer wouldn't want that information spread about." Winthrop shook his head, "He simply sits in the Ninth Circle corner booth with that dog of Charles', waiting for something I couldn't guess."

 _This may be harder than I thought._

Squaring her shoulders, Riley continued talking before Jericho or Sarge decided to make the situation worse with a snide comment. "Regardless, I've come too far to give up now. Can we speak with him?" She directed the enquiry towards Barrows, who'd mentioned once during her recovery that he functioned as Underworld's de-facto mayor.

"Absolutely, don't let an old ghoul stand in your way!" Barrows stated emphatically, waving both hands, "Charles' disappearance has upset a great many in Underworld and if we can do anything to assist you, please, please ask."

Shaking the doctor's hand one last time after a respectful nod towards Winthrop, Riley moved towards the Ninth Circle, one of Underworld's two bars. Warm light drifted beneath the double doors, accompanied by the smooth voice of Dean Martin crackling across the radio. Opening the door with the same slow caution she did with every room, a survival habit she'd picked up in DC and never managed to lose, Riley moved into the bar.

A long, oaken counter took up the back corner, walls about adorned with shelves containing various alcohols and boxes of ammunition. A radio sat atop the bar next to a framed picture of a man in a stovepipe hat, the source of the music filling the room. Rickety tables and chairs took up the open spaces of the Ninth Circle wherever they would fit, with numerous ghouls sitting around those different tables. Several electric lightbulbs dangled from the ceiling, the source of power unknown but likely the result of Winthrop's hard work, illuminating the bar with a level of cheeriness the gaslamps couldn't deliver. Several framed pictures of various afterlife concepts, including several of Dante and Virgil, who Riley recognized from reading Charles' copy of _The Divine Comedy_ , though it had taken two run-throughs to really understand it.

What intrigued her most of all was the woman standing behind the bar. Unlike the rest of the patrons Riley could see, the owner still had all her skin. Shoulder-length black hair ran down from a face with features suggesting East-Asian ancestry, soft-brown eyes looking inquisitively outward toward the new arrivals. A set of heavy combat armor seemed out of place on the slender woman, who carried no visible armaments.

Glancing up from behind the bar, the woman said simply, "You must be Riley, of Riley's Rangers fame." She had a near melodic voice while speaking in a calm, even tone.

"Yeah," Riley admitted, "And you?"

"Sydney," the woman stated, "Former treasure hunter, now retired. With the previous owner of the establishment passed away the locals gave me the place, mostly because no one else wanted it. Figured if I was going into the ammo business it wouldn't hurt to sell drinks on the side."

"How do you know my name?" Riley probed, moving cautiously closer to the oaken counter, "I've never met you."

"I know Charles," she said bluntly and that struck Riley by surprise since the Lone Wanderer had never mentioned the, admittedly pretty Sydney. Something stirred inside her she couldn't quite explain. Were she a petty woman Riley may have called it jealousy.

"How?" Jericho asked gruffly, "Because I sure as hell don't, and I've traveled plenty with the kid."

"About a month ago, give or take a couple of days," Sydney recalled, leaning her willowy arms against the countertop, "I was hired by this guy, Abraham Washington, out of Rivet City, to retrieve some old papers. He called it the Declaration of Independence or something like that, I barely remember…"

"I bet Charles would have loved that," Donavan whispered, leaning close to his boss. Riley was certainly in agreement She could see his eyes go wide at the sight of the physical piece of history, almost hear him babbling on adorably about its significance to such and such and what it meant to so and so. In that moment she almost smiled, but reality reared its ugly head again.

 _He would have told me something about finding the Declaration, there's no way he wouldn't have,_

"He was with Charon, his ghoul bodyguard and some cattle dog he'd named Dogmeat. Apparently Abraham sent them as backup." She paused, glancing to the far corner, where a massive ghoul occupied the table, a cattle dog sitting at his feet. Riley had seen Charon a few times before and was always struck by the sheer size of him, the shotgun he carried proved bigger than either of her arms, and the metal shoulder pads he'd attached to his leather armor was easily large enough to serve her as a shield. He sat immobile, yellowed eyes facing the nearest wall, corpse-like features unmoving, practically a statue.

"After we dropped off the Declaration," Sydney continued, drawing Riley's attention back, "He said something about 'needing to find himself,' I did too I suppose. Nearly being made a Super Mutant's mid-afternoon snack does that to a person." She gave a soft chuckle, rapping her knuckles against the solid wood beneath her. "So I quit treasure-hunting, and came to Underworld. It's quieter here, more cozy besides, and ghouls hit on me less." That last line was delivered with a self-deprecating smirk that removed much of the arrogance of the boast itself.

Sarge murmured something behind Riley's shoulder that sounded the very opposite of kind and appropriate, disagreeing vehemently with Sydney's analysis, but the mercenary ignored him.

"Charon is over there right?" Riley asked pointing her thumb towards the massive ghoul in leather armor with the dog as if he could be anyone else. He maintained the same expression he always wore, no matter the situation.

"Yup, hasn't moved much." Sydney explained, nodding towards Dogmeat, "He's a little restless though, but Charon's taken good care of him." A far-off look changed her expression, slight smile at the pleasant memory, "I swear, I actually saw him smile one time while feeding Dogmeat, which he vehemently denied. Though he never actually responded to the accusation I'd seen him scratching the dog under the chin." Sydney shook her head, "He's a big softy on the inside, really grumpy expressions not withstanding."

Nodding her head towards Sydney by way of thanks, Riley and her companions approached Charon, walking across the Ninth Circle towards the massive ghoul. They hadn't gotten halfway across the floor when Dogmeat noticed them. The dog barked happily at the sight of Riley, leaping to his feet and bouncing across the floor with tongue hanging loosely. Riley dropped to one knee, allowing the dog to get his front paws on her shoulders, licking her face joyfully with accompanying cheerful barks.

Rubbing the dog's back, the mercenary responded, "Hey boy! How are you? Looking good you big strong man!" Jericho made a gagging noise, but Riley ignored him continuing to pet the dog with unbridled enthusiasm. It had been awhile since she'd seen Dogmeat and maybe, if she were honest, she missed him more than Chuck.

 _It is a good quality to have, owning a dog._

Standing tall again, with Dogmeat happily follow at her heels, Riley directed her attention towards the massive ghoul. "Charon."

"Captain Riley," he responded with similar neutrality. Riley stood in silence facing him, the stillness only broken by the radio and slight humming from Sarge's servos. At last turning his attention towards the orange-haired mercenary, Charon asked simply, "You are looking for Charles." He knew, of course he did, why else would the mercenary trek across the Capital Wasteland to make a visit she'd never made before?

"Yes." There was no point in denial, or attempting subterfuge. Charon, for his seemingly-simple nature, was a rather shrewd man, with plenty of cunning hidden behind sunken yellow eyes. "We believe he might be in trouble…" Riley added after a moment, though Charon hadn't ever said one word about it, it was clear that he respected and liked Charles, perhaps even considering him friend, and like any good friend, would want to help.

"He might be." Charon stated in his carefully steady voice, keeping the unblinking gaze fixed on the much smaller woman. Dogmeat cocked his head to the side, looking up at the ghoul with puppy-sad eyes. Glancing down towards the dog for a split-second, an expression of sorrow crossed Charon's fleshless face, but then it was gone, replaced with the still stoicism typical of him.

"So help us find him!" Donavan stated emphatically, moving towards the bodyguard, "I know you were with him when he disappeared and I know he's your friend. So tell us everything you know…"

"I'm scared for him…" Riley admitted, voice so quiet she barely heard it.

"I want to," Charon stated, the stoicism starting, ever so subtly, to crack. He shook his head, eyes glancing towards the floor, "But the contract is absolute. I can not ignore a direct order from whoever holds it." He looked back towards Riley, expression a swirling mass of conflicting emotion, "I was directly ordered, by the holder of my contract, that I wasn't to reveal, under any circumstances to anyone, anything that might help track down my missing employer, namely Charles, the holder of my contract."

"He's in really rough shape isn't he?" Donavan asked quietly, a physical sensation of pain in the air at the thought.

Charon nodded grimly, "I was there when James died." Riley winced at the stillness of the ghoul's tone, clearly intending to hide some very real grief Charon himself felt at James' death, not to mention watching a close friend experience something so horrific. "It was like the boss himself died along with his father…The kid was screaming, beating his hands bloody against the glass. I had to get him out…"

"How?" Jericho sneered looking down his nose at the ghoul, "How'd you get him out?"  
"I carried him." The way Charon stated those three words made it clear he was entirely serious. The ghoul shook his head, "After we got Doctor Li, the Project's only surviving scientist, to the Citadel, the boss ran a mission for some loon with the new bartender." Charon pointed towards Sydney, who happily waved by way of response. "He wanted to blow off steam, clear his head, but that wasn't helping, he was still broken. Even so, he tried to carry on…" Charon paused, as if afraid of what came next, "Then we picked up the radio signal…"

"Yes?" Riley asked, trying to figure out what exactly had pushed the kid from 101 over the edge, driving the Wasteland's messiah to flee from everyone he called friend. She knew James' death hit him hard, but there was clearly more, something about that signal…

"I'm sworn to secrecy, on the contract," he stated with far less uncertainty than he had previously, "That was a personal matter and I will not be betraying my direct orders. Ask him yourself."

"We can't," Jericho growled irritatedly, "Because we don't know where he is, because you won't tell us."  
Charon's expression was blank, but something about that particular blow stung. Riley stood motionless, entirely unsure of how to proceed. She knew Charon held the information she wanted, but getting it was another matter entirely…

"There is a clause…" The ghoul bodyguard admitted after a period of several silent minutes, with a slight upbeat in his tone suggesting he very much hoped Riley would latch onto this particular lead.

She didn't hesitate to do so. "Yes? Tell me more about this clause…"

The ghoul launched immediately into what seemed a well rehearsed rendition of a small sub-clause of his lengthy contract. Considering how much of his existence was tied around that sheet of paper Riley wasn't surprised how much of it he'd memorized. "Under sub-section C of clause 23, in exceptional circumstances where the life of the contract-holder might be in danger and he or she is unable to articulate instructions on behalf of that danger, a member of their family can supersede previous instructions of the contract-holder as long as those new instructions are only with the direct intention of saving the life of the contract-holder." There was a weighty pause, as if the ghoul was waiting for something to be stated.

"I am a member of Charles' family," Riley stated determinedly, "And I'm proud to say so."

"In what way?" Jericho leered, leaning towards the woman as she said it, position of eyebrows implying something far beyond even the clear lechery in his voice. Riley ignored him.

"Perhaps not by blood," Charon answered in his gravelly voice, "But Charles has made it very clear that you are family. I accept your request to replace previous standing instructions for the sake of Charles' safety."

Reaching into the shoulder-mounted ammunition pouch, Charon retrieved a small holo-tape. Handing it gently to Riley, the ghoul explained, "The boss recorded everything on this tape after speaking with the ship captain. Load it into a terminal and you'll know how to follow him to some far off island called Point Lookout."

For reasons she couldn't possibly fathom at the name Point Lookout a chill ran down her spine. That name invoked images of danger, loneliness and myth.

 _Oh Chuck, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?_

"Ship captain?" Jericho said with an acidic tone, "How the hell are we going to get there?"

"Water's bad for my circuits," RL-3 grumbled, buzzing his saw agitatedly. Riley knew the Mr. Gutsy's thrusters kept him out of the water but felt it impolite to suggest that fact.

"Winthrop's got a terminal," Sydney shouted from the other side of the Ninth Circle, "I'm sure he'd be happy to let you use it, seeing as it's for a good cause."

"Eavesdropping?" Donavan asked the woman laconically, raising a solitary eyebrow to showcase exactly how he felt about the subject.

"For a good cause, absolutely," the retired adventurer admitted happily. "Charlie seems like a good guy and I don't like the idea of him dying alone…or whatever."

"Are you going to help then?" Jericho growled, fishing around in his pockets for loose cigarettes, "Or are you sitting back on your ass and letting us run around to find this piss-far island?"

"I'm not going anywhere," Sydney admitted, "But here," she bent low beneath the bar and withdrew a box of mixed ammunition. "Take whatever you need, with my blessing." Jericho mumbled a rude response under his breath but Riley ignored it.

"I'll take it, gratefully," Slipping the holo-tape into one of the weapon pouches on her belt, the mercenary captain stood and approached the bar. Glancing into the box of loose ammunition and clips, Riley helped herself to a few 5.56 magazines, somewhat mitigating the rounds spent on the Super Mutants.

"Ah-ha!" An older, male, voice announced from the bar's entrance, a voice that somehow Riley knew, "Barrows was right! Captain Riley is here and she's hunting the missing Lone Wanderer!"

Riley nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden announcement, turning sharply on her boot-heel while her hand shot upward towards the Infiltrator. Yet her eyes fell upon a leathery old man, who seemed the farthest possible thing from threatening. He was tall for an older gentleman, thin frame implying a wire spryness rather than frailty, with wrinkled, weathered features that held a ruddy, charming complex. A full, rich white beard and mustache covered the lower half of the face, with bushy white eyebrows and a full head of similarly shaded hair the top. Soft green eyes twinkled mischievously, as if their owner hadn't matured despite advanced years. A battered, pre-war fedora rested atop his head, a dark blue, and well pressed, sweater vest sat over a light blue cotton shirt, above khaki pants. A Bushmaster M4A1 assault rifle rested on that back, seemingly at odds with the friendly, neighborly appearance of the old man.

The recollection of the voice finally clicked in Riley's mind and she said happily, "Daring Dashwood! Is that really you?"

The adventurer bowed, "Daring of GNR fame in the flesh my dear woman! Absolutely lovely to see you," tipping his fedora towards her happily, the old man continued, "I was so excited to hear from Doctor Barrows about the news of your arrival as I could only assume you had one purpose."

"Which was?"

"To find the Lone Wanderer, of course," before Riley could express her confusion at how the old man was aware of the situation Dashwood explained, "I listen to Three Dog as well, my dear Captain and I am well aware of Charles' disappearance. I assumed your arrival could only be intended for the purpose of speaking with his ghoul companion." Nodding his weathered head towards Charon, Dashwood explained, "He's not the talkative sort, you know."

"So, what exactly is your interest in all this?" Riley probed, still unsure of Daring's intentions, "What do you want?"

"I want to come along, of course."

"What?"

"Are you going deaf?" Daring chuckled loudly, voice deep and low, "That's supposed to be my job!" The adventure rubbed a weathered hand across a wrinkled forehead. "And before you ask, yes, my health is excellent, Barrows himself has seen to it, repeatedly."

"So, you want to come along and help us find Charles?" Riley asked, still entirely unsure what Dashing's agenda was with his sudden appearance in Underworld, "We're traveling somewhere called Point Lookout, an island off of DC, it's not going to be a cake walk."

"My heart is fine," he stated with an exasperated tone suggesting he heard this more often than he'd like. "I owe Charles a debt, simple as that. Herbert Daring Dashwood pays his debts!" He crossed his arms and stared Riley dead in the face, "Besides, it looks like you are needing all the help you can get on this mission." He tapped the butt of his assault rifle lovingly, "My eyes are as sharp as ever and my trigger finger itchier than its ever been." He offered her his hand, "So how about it? You have room for one more old gun ready for another adventure?"

* * *

 **AN: Before anyone asks, yes, I know the book you receive in Fallout 3 is actually titled "Paradise Lost," however, the description of the book as you receive it actually matches the plot of Dante's Divine Comedy, plus, I prefer the Divine Comedy so the change was made. Secondly, Dashwood as a character was, too me, hugely intriguing and entirely under-used throughout FO3, with a pointless potential death that makes no sense given his status as an "honorary ghoul." Expect big things from the dashing old adventurer.**

 **Finally, I picked up plenty of new favs, followers and even new commenters! Thank you all so very much for your support, it means everything to me. Charles is back next chapter...Stay tuned.**


	8. Midnight Fires

_"She's in a bad way," Doctor Barrows told him clinically, prepping the delicate balance of medication in his syringe that would both bring the patient out of her coma while hopefully keeping her internal organs running properly._

 _Gazing down at the pale, slender woman lying still on one of the Chop Shop's cots, Charles found himself strangely moved, "She's beautiful…" He murmured, running a coarse hand across the skin of her face, feeling how soft it was to the touch. "Do you know anything about her?"_

 _"Well, her name's Riley, at least according to the tag we pulled off her combat armor," the ghoul surgeon put down the first needle, picking up a second and beginning to likewise fill it with a similarly florescent chemical cocktail._

 _"Combat?" Charles asked, struggling to believe the petite, pleasant-faced, orange-haired woman lying motionless on the cot was military, "Who does she fight for? Brotherhood? Talon?"_

 _"Riley's Rangers," Barrows stated clinically, "Again, according to her personal effects. She must be quite the soldier though; when Willow and Quinn first dragged her in here she was more wounds than woman."_

 _Glancing down at the still form of Riley, Charles struggled to believe that. Clearly Doctor Barrows must have been great at his chosen profession. "What'd she have?" He dared to ask, unsure he really wanted to know while morbid curiosity took the better of his sensibilities._

 _"What didn't she have?" Barrows snorted, a rather curious and high pitched sound considering his lack of nose. "Third degree laser burn, upper right shoulder, caused by laser rifle fire, two broken ribs, hammer blow, one broken leg, due to fall, all besides a near uncountable number of bruises, scrapes and cuts. Could have been much worse though as some scarring suggests shrapnel was this close to taking her left eye." He held two fingers in the air with a gap of only a few centimeters between them before shaking his head sadly, "That would have been a real shame."_

 _"Wow," Charles murmured softly, gazing down at the woman who'd survived all this, "I wonder what did that to her…"_

 _"Quinn mentioned Super Mutants were crawling all over the place," Barrows announced casually, picking up both syringes and moving across the room towards Riley's unconscious form, "Normally they tend to leave ghouls alone, I don't know why, maybe because we're both ugly," he chuckled a little, beginning to adjust Riley's posture in preparation for the combination of healing and stabilization agents. "They must have wanted her badly though because Quinn told me they had a shootout over her, three Mutants were killed in the process." Doctor Barrows shook his head nervously, "I hope that doesn't come back to bite us in our unmentionables."_

 _"You risked your neck for someone you didn't…know?" Charles asked, leaving the mention of ghoul, human bigotry unstated._

 _"Of course," Barrows stated simply, "It's the human thing to do." Rolling up one of the simple cotton sleeves Riley was wearing, looking around the arm for a vein, the doctor stated, "I'm going to wake her up, but you need to be the first face she sees. Ghouls can be…unpleasant as a first sight." Tapping a forefinger against the glass casing of the syringe once, Barrows took her arm gently and inserted the healing concoction into Riley's bloodstream._

 _The woman shuddered, eyelids fluttering open to reveal magnificent sea green eyes. Charles felt a twinge, something deep inside him that he immediately tried to ignore. "Hey, Riley?" He whispered softly as a look of panic set those green eyes glancing about, "My name is Charles, I'm a vault dweller and a friend. Everything is going to be just fine…"_

* * *

He was undressed, lying in an unfamiliar bed. There was breath on his neck, a woman's, a feminine hand both somehow soft and coarse, like another hand he'd touched so many times. It was dark, only the sound of crickets, or some mutant equivalent, making it into the pitch black interior of the room.

 _Riley?_

"Well…that was unexpected," the mysterious woman said, in a voice that clearly wasn't Riley's a realization that both pleased and, oddly enough, disappointed him.

 _Why would she be Riley? I ran away, remember stupid?_

The dark, feminine shape shifted around until her head and hands were resting on Charles' chest. The features were finally visible, despite the darkness of the shack and he realized he'd woken up in the arms of Marguerite, the moonshiner. Suddenly the memories of the previous evening came back in a rush. His panicked flight back from the cannibal's shack, the brewing process which produced far more moonshine than either could have possibly imagined. The drunken flirtations combined with his remaining adrenaline and her overt lust lead to the only possible conclusion.

"Damn Chucky," she growled, climbing up his body, kissing every inch of it along the way, "You know your shit." She rolled back and sighed contentedly, "Ugh…I missed that."

Chuckling to himself in an attempt to cover his admittedly mixed feelings about the situation, Charles muttered, "I've had practice…"

"I'll bet," Marguerite groaned out, stroking her weathered hand along the jagged scar left across his chest by the DC mutant, "Handsome young buck like you? I'll bet you had lots." Trying to fight down a strange sensation of guilt washing over his body, seemingly both internally and externally, Charles fumbled around in the darkness for his fallen vest, desperately trying to find a cigarette to take the edge off. No doubt determining what his intention was, Marguerite swatted him again, "Hey, I don't care how good you are, no smoking in my house." Though the tone was initially playful, there was a solid edge to it.

"Alright, alright," he responded casually, fingers finding the glass bottle the duo had filled with moonshine. Figuring his splitting headache wouldn't be made worse with another round he pulled the cork from the bottle and drank a healthy mouthful of alcohol.

The two lay in silence, Charles staring up at the ceiling trying to make sense of everything he felt, while Marguerite curled up around his muscular form. After an undetermined amount of time passed by, the woman asked him, "Hey, who's Riley?"

"Excuse me?" Charles responded, suddenly very defensive and all too aware of his current state of undress.

"You heard me," she swatted him teasingly on the arm, "While we were rutting you said her name." The darkened form of Marguerite held up two fingers, "Twice." Her tone was remarkably neutral, as if she really didn't care, but seemed somewhat bemused at the spreading redness on Charles' cheeks. "And don't brush this off like you did when I asked you about that woman from your nightmares, Amata? I get loss and respect your privacy there, but this Riley?" She paused and he could almost hear the moonshiner try to put a complex set of thoughts into words, "When you said her name there was a reverence, a passion behind it that I haven't heard in a long time." She playfully jabbed his chest with an index finger, "You need to talk about it."

"You want to talk about another woman?" Charles asked, completely shocked by the frivolity of the statement, "After what we just did?"  
"Why not?" Marguerite responded casually, "You're just a lay to me boy and, while I enjoyed every second of it, this is clearly someone important, someone worthy of your time." She kissed his cheek tenderly, breath clearly heavy with alcohol, though her speech was unimpaired. "So, since we've already been so open with one another, why don't you talk about her?"

Charles crossed his fingers over his chest, while still staring up towards the ceiling, acutely aware of the woman's breath on his neck. "She's this woman I know, back in DC. We're friends…" He paused, wondering with himself if they really were friends at all. Clearly she felt that way about him, but how could he call himself friend after leaving her behind during a Chem-addled flight from DC.

"Go on," Marguerite demanded gently prodding his torso.

"She's a mercenary, hard as nails, but beautiful and sometimes, somehow, oddly adorable." He paused, picturing the smirking face of Captain Riley in his head, "She's got orange hair, brilliant, like the sun setting in the sky." His face took on a glow, thinking about her, "She crinkles her nose when she smiles, bares her teeth when she's protecting her friends; she's smart too, really smart, with plenty of cunning and endurance. What she's survived would have killed me a dozen times over." He laughed heartily listen to the soft giggle of the woman beside him.

"See?" She asked him, "Listen to yourself, listen to how you described her. Are you together?" She paused, suddenly sharp in tone, "I'd hope not considering..."

"No," he said quietly, "And I don't think we ever will, I'm not sure that's what I want…"

"Why the hell not?" Marguerite probed, refusing to let go of the subject, "Because of this Amata?" He looked down at her sharply, "Tell me one good reason why some ghost from your past should control your future?" She bulldozed over him, plowing onward with a fierce stubbornness that, oddly enough, reminded Charles of Riley. "I heard the difference in your voice, even if you won't. Riley? You love her, you really do, and I think you should let yourself see that."

"Even if you're right," he growled by way of response, "It's too late. I lost everything and ran away from my life! That's why I came to this bloody island!" He was livid, every raw emotion he'd had bubbling up to the surface in a wave, "That's why I'm brewing moonshine and hunting chems in the swamps! I gave everything I had to the Wasteland, and the Wasteland crumpled it up and threw it in my face!" He screamed, a combination of sorrow and rage, "My home! My integrity, my health my father! Amata!" He paused, trying to get his breath back, "Gone. All of it gone. And what's left behind is this," he gestured to himself, a disheveled, sunken-eyed, husk with overgrown, tangled hair and beard, skin so pale it was almost clear. "This isn't worthy of Riley and this isn't something I want her to see, regardless of how I may or may not feel, seeing as you seem so convinced of something I don't really believe."

There was a palatable silence as Marguerite chewed over his statements. After several moments she said bluntly, "Screw the Wasteland, don't go back for it, they've done jack shit for you. Go back for her."

Charles didn't answer.

 _If only it were that simple._

* * *

"Point Lookout," Dashwood mused, stroking his snowy beard with a weathered hand stoically, "I thought that name sounded familiar." He traced the crudely drawn map displayed by the terminal using his pointer finger, eyes squinting narrowly at the miniature lettering identifying the blob on the screen as such.

"It did?" Riley asked, entirely surprised, "I'd heard something awhile back but my job was cartography! And in all my hundreds of hours of work we never heard more than a blurb about the island."

The team had returned to the Ranger Compound from Underworld, initially invigorated but now feeling something resembling defeat, though none would admit it. Point Lookout was hundreds of miles away by both sea and land, with no clear, and importantly quick, way of getting there.

"Remind me again why this old sack of crap is here?" Jericho growled under his breath to Donavan, clamping his teeth down so tightly on his cigarette that Riley was certain the bandit would split it in half.

Before the tech could respond to the muttered insult, Dashwood himself spoke up. "I've only got a few years on you son," he responded evenly, voice free of wavering, "And all of it experience. I've got a stronger back and sharper eyes than you, and a body strengthened by adventure and plenty of women," he laughed heartily, tapping the barrel of his Bushmaster as he did, "You wait until the fighting starts; I'll bag more than you."

"We'll just see won't we?" The ex-raider grumbled, putting out the stub of his cigarette on the powered-down form of Sergeant RL-3. The pinch of ash and fresh burn disappeared among the tapestry of damage along the Mr. Gutsy's frame. Dogmeat glanced up at Jericho disapprovingly before retuning to his place on the floor, eyes closed, attempting to find sleep on the cool metal beneath his furry body.

"You were saying? Point Lookout?" Riley reiterated exasperatedly, trying to reign the conversation vaguely back to a place that might be helpful.

"Right," Dashwood respond, ignoring Jericho utterly. The ex-raider flipped the older man the bird when Daring turned his back, refusing to lower the finger even after Riley's staunch glare proved icy. Glancing over towards Charon for morale support, Jericho instead found the ghoul asleep in the chair, head bowed and hands folded, though his shotgun was still within easy reach.

 _I've never seen him sleep. I wonder if Sydney was right and he really did stay up for the whole month._

"Point Lookout, apparently haunted, the home of monsters, myth and, even though we never saw any, apparently treasure." Jabbing his finger towards the little speck on the map constituting the island, he continued, "Argyle and I had just come through the Commonwealth after one hell of a bender…Let me tell you Ultra Jet? It's got quite the kick, and boy can ghouls drink! I mean really…" Riley coughed, cutting the anecdote short. Holding up his hands apologetically, Dashwood moved back to the subject, "So we'd come back from the Commonwealth, high out of our minds and looking for some easy caps when I heard this rumor for an escaped Pitt slave I rescued from bounty hunters near DC. This kid, all skin and bones, looked a hell of a lot worse than Argyle somehow, told me about this place, the Lookout, he called it. Apparently it was some dark shrouded island covered in evil and mystery. So naturally, Argyle and I went there."

"How?" Jericho asked snidely, "Did you walk?"

"We did actually," the old adventurer answered casually, "But we had all the time in the world, something Charles doesn't, considering he's likely there now. It took us roughly four months or so, just the one way. According to Charon, it was about a forth of that by boat, which means our boy's only been on the island a couple of days…" He trailed off, gazing seriously at the map as Dogmeat raised his head and whined nervously, dark eyes wide with concern for his master.

"You've actually been on the island, Mr. Dashwood?" Donavan asked with a reverent tone Riley had never heard the tech use with anyone. Though she always found him near the radio when, "The Adventures of Daring Dashwood," was playing on GNR, so it made sense. Ever since they'd met the aged adventure, Donavan had been in a silent awe of the man.

"Call me Daring," the elderly rogue responded with a chuckle, "But yes, I've been there. The best part of the whole ghastly place is this local fruit, punga, the locals call it. Sweet and bitter, a sensation in your mouth like no other. A good cleanser too, really moves the bowels." Jericho guffawed, suggesting that particular line of knowledge was far from necessary.

"The terrain? Locals? Anything we should know?" Riley asked with mounting concern, if Herbert Daring Dashwood didn't think much of Point Lookout, the idea that Charles was there now, likely in horrible trouble, chilled her to the bone. "What's it like Dashwood?"

His expression was grave, but he attempted to keep that severity from leaking into his voice, "Well, the land is nothing but swamp and marsh for nearly the entire island, aside from Pilgrim's Landing, the small carnival town built who knows how long ago." Scratching his beard, the adventurer continued, "There's a couple of old mansions dotting the island, plus of course, the tribal villages and swampfolk hideaways."

"Swampfolk?" Riley probed, the more she heard of the island, the less she liked it.

"And not the fun kind," Daring stated definitively, leaving Riley wondering exactly what the good kind of swampfolk would be, "Ugly inbred buggers who don't like outsiders let me tell you. Argyle and I barely escaped Point Lookout after we got them royally mad. Some creepy old bugger named what was it? Blackhide? Blackwall? Bah! It'll come to me later." Noting the confusion from the three conscious faces staring at him, Dashwood explained, "He wasn't much older than me, but he felt ancient. It was the eyes I think, eyes that stared right into your soul." The old man visibly shivered, pulling the plaid sweatervest tighter around his scrawny form. "He hired myself and my man-servant to track down some old book of his family's with a funny-sounding name…I'll recall it later. Apparently his family lived on the island in that old house for centuries and these swampfolk broke into his place and stole the book for some dastardly purpose. They probably thought it sacred to Ug-Qualtoth, their bloodthirsty god." He shook his head, old memories coming back in full force, "We didn't get within ten klicks of the sacred spot before they were on us, hundreds of them, led by a massive beast of a man, if we could realistically even call him a man, wearing a dark cape and mask made of human skin. Naturally, Argyle and myself agreed caps weren't worth the risk and fled the island, swampfolk on our tail." Daring shuddered, "I'd not want to cross them again, but if our boy is in danger, I'll happily give them what for."  
"So we have a massed army of fanatical inbreds," Jericho growled, taking a long drag from a fresh cigarette, much to Donavan's expressed disdain at the indoor smoking. "What else do we have on this slice of heaven?" The sarcasm was palatable.

"Ghouls, mirelurks, bloatflies and bloodbugs of course," Daring stated far too happily in Riley's opinion, "Plus plenty of local tribals, though not all of them are necessarily aggressive. I believe they worship the great punga? It wasn't very clear. Oh, and smuggler bands like to stop by on the island, either moving goods, hiding them or digging them up. I spoke with one once…she had red hair…" Daring's gaze shifted to a sly grin very much suggesting talking was far from all they did. "Her band went all the way up to New California, though I've certainly never been, too far a distance even for Daring Dashwood. This young woman also mentioned some fellows taking goods up to the Mid-Western Brotherhood, though I'm not sure they even exist really. A cutthroat bunch though, they'll kill you as well as look at you."

"I'd assume a swamp that big is also loaded with diseases," Donavan noted, stroking the point of his chin with a nervous energy, "Plus sinkholes, falling tree limbs, the whole mess…"

"Exactly!" Dashwood snapped a finger, "There isn't really any treasure though, at least, none that we found. But Point Lookout is isolated, and dangerous. If someone wanted to disappear and wasn't picky about surviving long enough to come home..." He took off his fedora and ran a weathered hand through his hair, concern clear on his face.

Riley couldn't believe what she was hearing, didn't want to, but Dashwood didn't seem the type to really exaggerate potential danger, not when he was part of a rescue mission instead of a radio broadcast at any rate. "We need to get him back," she growled determinedly, jabbing her finger against the terminal's screen, "Now.

"How the shit are we going to do that?" Jericho responded snidely, "By the time we walk three months Charlie's going to be dead. And I don't know where we can find another boat…"

"Actually," Dashwood answered equally slyly, "I might have an answer for that…"

* * *

 _"You sure about this boss?" Charon asked, clear worry expressed on his corpse-like face. "I mean, this machine looks like the kinda crap that uploads your brain into a computer or something…" The bodyguard glanced about the eerily quiet atrium of Vault 112, metallic silence broken only by the sounds of treads as the various Robobrains went about whatever mysterious task had been programmed into their databanks long ago._

 _Dogmeat wined nervously, dashing about in a frenzy of nervous energy. The dog had already run three laps of the room, panting all the while, hunting for something that neither human nor ghoul could see. Sarge floated with low mumblings about "communist traps," and "commie plots," but was otherwise normal. Oddly enough, in that moment, staring down into the bizarre pod-thing that promised some answerers to the location of his father, Charles found himself wishing Jericho were there to offer a pithy remark and put his spirit at ease._

 _But the ex-raider had proven remarkably vulnerable to local superstition of haunting and ghosts. "Shit no, even if Vera god damn Keyes herself asked me to go into 112 with her and promised me a screw afterwards there's no way in hell that I'd go into that place, ever." Were his exact words and no amount of bribery or coercion changed his mind._

 _But Charon, loyal, steady, impervious Charon, had followed without hesitation, without any trace of fear or worry, until they'd entered the vault itself. The Robobrains clearly put the ghoul on edge, "It's not natural," he mumbled over and over again, the irony clearly lost on him. Yet even so, shotgun raised and loaded, he followed Charles deep into the belly of the metal beast only audibly voicing his concern when the kid from 101 stared down into the unoccupied lounger, obvious choice staring back at him._

 _"Am I sure?" Charles asked, swallowing a sudden lump that appeared in his throat, sweat tickling the back of his neck beneath the leather collar of the Tunnel Snake jacket he wore. "Am I sure?" He repeated again, taking off the ballcap and running a hand through his messy hair nervously, "No. Not even close." He paused, and then set his jaw determinedly, "But if it's the only way to find whatever Dad was looking for I'll take it."_

 _"We'll watch your back while you're in there," Charon stated gruffly, "At the first sign of trouble, I'm pulling the plug."_

 _"Deal," Charles shook the bodyguard's hand and climbed into the pod, "Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death," the former almost chaplain murmured, suddenly very much reminded of Daniel and the Lion's den. The pod door closed around him, locking into place with a disconcerting click. A gentle thudding from outside the glass proved Charon had smacked his palm against it a few times as a comforting reminder of his presence. Even Sarge had floated towards the pod, three eyes narrowing protectively._

 _Giving both of them thumbs up, Charles leaned back in the chair and watched the monitor come down…_

 _"Why is everything so hot?" It felt like his skin was on fire, smoke filling up his lungs, not the pleasant kind. Tranquility Lane was all wrong, no maniacal music no psychopathic Betty…"How do I know that? I've never been here…"_

 _"This is a dream," the voice told him, rough but caring. Titling his head towards the voice, Charles saw the patchy, familiar face of Theodore, his teddy bear. "This is a dream," Theodore repeated, waving his stumpy arms, "You need to wake up right now! If you don't, we'll both die!"_

His eyes snapped open, seeing darkness, broken only by the whiteness of his pillow and the close proximity of his teddy bear, whose cheerful features were still clearly visible. He was in the motel.

 _I went back, needed to think, to be alone…That was a day ago?_

* * *

The room was warm and getting warmer, a dark haze hanging over everything as a loud crackling reached his finally waking ears. Rolling over in the bed towards the window, everything became brilliantly illuminated in the most horrifying way imaginable. The entire western wall was on fire, the room was burning. Dark smoke filled the contained, hanging low beneath the ceiling, further creating a deadly contrast of light and dark. The ratty curtains blazed, flames licking the walls and ceilings as a deadly wall of fire rushed across open air.

Screaming in panic, instinct took control of his body. Gripping Theodore tightly against his chest, Charles rolled off the bed, hitting the floor hard on the side farthest from the window. Tucking the teddy bear into the nearest open duffelbag, knocking his Confederate hat free from the bedpost as he did so, Charles steadied his breathing. Grabbing the crudely maintained motel pillow, still damp with sweat, he rose, bare feet padding across the carpeted floor. Already, fire from the walls had worked its way towards the rickety cabinet beneath the window, dancing across the top of that container. In a panic at the thought of his vault suit and ballcap burning away, Charles dropped the pillow, fell to his knees and pulled both items free of the burning shelf.

That action saved his life.

The window exploded in a volley of gunshots, shards of glass falling past him, slashing his exposed face and chest. A hideous war whoop sounded from outside, and a quick glance through the smoke and shattered glass, confirmed what his instincts at the sound of the battle-cry to be true.

A mob of deformed swampfolk, armed with rifles, shotguns, axes and torches stood in the street before the motel, some leveling rifles to fire again, while others readied additional Molotov cocktails, no doubt intending to get a few through the now open window. Charles threw himself to the floor as a massive hick in overalls raised a double-barrel shotgun and pulled the trigger.

The weapon boomed knocking even more glass out of the shattered pane and onto his exposed back. Several chunks stuck, stabbing through his skin agonizingly. Still, to stop meant death so, gritting his teeth, Charles scuttled across the floor, hat and suit in hand, towards his table of weapons. The small arms fire continued, various hunting rifles and lever-action weapons putting bullets into the wall above him.

Grabbing the Chinese assault rifle from the table, slapping the clip to ensure its secure placement, Charles rolled back towards the window. Bullets whizzed by, a few impacting the door uncomfortably near him as smoke grew denser and the room hotter. Despite the pain in his back from shards of glass, despite the fear of the mob outside, armed to the teeth, the Lone Wanderer rose, brought the assault rifle butt against his shoulder and opened fire.

The brilliant contrast from the muzzle burst destroyed any hope of adjusting to the night so, unsure of accuracy, continued to spray 5.56 rounds towards the nearest concentration of howling blobs until the clip ran dry. Dropping to the floor and replacing the spent magazine, Charles listened for sounds suggesting he'd actually hit any of the hicks. A few groans of pain were audible, even above the general howling and snarling echoing from the larger mob. Another Molotov impacted against the side of the motel, bursting and spewing its deadly flame across the walls.

Rising a second time, Charles once again opened fire. This time he certainly dropped a massive swampfolk, as he saw a form collapse, blood leaking from the deformed body. Trying to find another target for his wrath, Charles was suddenly struck in the head and fell backward.

It was a tiny impact point direct to the forehead, the pain more stinging than anything else, but the sudden impact was enough to knock him backward, body slamming painfully against the floor. Clawing at his head in an attempt to ascertain the damage, his nails dislodged a solitary BB, the cause of the wound. For just one moment, Charles was utterly convinced of the existence of the God he'd been trained to preach about considering if that swampfolk who'd shot him had been armed with another weapon, the Lone Wander would be dead.

Still, the sight of his falling must have invigorated the swampfolk because they charged in a mad rush, towards the motel. Some did at least, judging by the combination of footsteps and continued gunfire. Knowing that if he didn't act he'd die, Charles jammed the barrel of his Chinese assault rifle out the gaping hole that was once the window and held the trigger down.

Scything bullets struck something, something that squealed like a pig as it collapsed, spattering blood through the opening. Rather than stopping to reload the empty assault rifle, Charles went back towards the table, snatching up his combat shotgun.

Glancing down towards the three remaining doses of Med-x the Lone Wanderer didn't even hesitate, jabbing the needle of one into his naked torso. The powerful numbness kicked in just as the door to the motel was ripped off its hinges and the ugly, misshapen head of a swampfolk jutted through the opening.

It didn't pay to be first however, as Charles' jerry-rigged shotgun boomed at the intrusion, both shells impacting into the beast at close range. Even as it fell, another came charging over the corpse, a scrawny, nearly naked thing with a tuff of dusty hair atop a lumpy head.

The swampfolk fired as it came onward, BB's erupting out of the barrel of its weapon, slamming against Charles in several places, though with the Med-x high the Lone Wanderer barely felt the metal objects. The trio of shotgun shells he returned, on the other hand, made a notable impact.

Even as that swampfolk died, another was shoving through the burning door, intent on reaching the hated man inside the motel. It died in turn, and so did the next, one after another. Until a massive creature, much like the one in the cannibal's shack, got his head through the door, brutal looking sleadgehammer in hand, approaching him hungrily. Charles aimed the shotgun and pulled the trigger, only to hear a horrifying click.

 _Shit._

"It's over now boy!" The creature squealed, thundering across the room while swinging his hammer. Charles leaped backwards across his bed, managing to avoid the skull-shattering blow of said hammer. His stash of chems however, was not so lucky. Charles watched in abject horror as his Med-x, stimpaks, Jet and psycho shattered beneath the heavy blow intended for him. Brilliantly colored liquid and glass erupted in all directions, the objects bent into one horrifying mash of nothing.

Charles felt his heart drop, but that was nothing compared to his reaction of fear at the grin of beast. Dropping his shotgun, the Lone Wanderer's fumbling hands found his trusty bat, lying beside the bed where it had fallen.

Bouncing onto the bed and using its springs to power him forward, Charles jumped at the massive swampfolk, holding the bat in both hands. His downward blow struck the beast in the head, raising a welt and disorienting it. Squirming and rolling around the enraged sledgehammer blows, Charles slammed the weapon into the engorged stomach of the creature, hearing the whoosh of foul-smelling air leaking up from its lungs at the force of the blow. He attacked the swampfolk's legs, hammering the knees with his bat, while dodging hammer blows and backhands.

Working his way back towards the weapon's table, the barrage of bat strikes continued, buying him enough time to find something with the punch to take the beast down before a lucky blow caved his ribcage in. Wild Bill's sidearm was heavy in his hands, all five bullets resting comfortably in the chamber. In the chocking darkness of the growing smoke, the swampfolk was disoriented; unable to locate the man who'd beaten him had gone. He never would find out.

Aiming the pistol towards the massive beast, Charles pulled the trigger five times. Each bullet impacted, driving the creature towards the wall now totally engulfed in brilliant flames. Not bothering to check if he was dead, Charles slammed a few rounds into the handgun, snapping it closed. His body was animalistic instinct now, entirely driven by the need to survive. Tossing bat and gun into the dufflebag containing his prized teddy bear, Charles zipped it shut, hung it around his form and, with the lever-action rifle in hand, dashed towards the open door.

An overall-wearing hick stood ready outside, gazing at the flaming motel with Molotov in hand. Even as his prey emerged however, he was too slow. Charles aimed his rifle downward and fired, bullet striking the glass bottle in the swampfolk's hand, shattering its contents. The creature howled as his entire body became engulfed in flames, running circles in the street, blazing away. Behind him, the motel room exploded outward in a roar of fury and power, the fire finally making its way towards his stash of potent moonshine, left behind in the panic, destructive power supported by the sounds of abandoned bullets erupting as flame consumed them.

A few more of the brutes came rushing towards their now blazing friend, crude weapons clutched in misshapen hands. Charles fired several bullets from his lever-action rifle towards the gathering foes, killing one and wounding another. Then he turned and ran, bare feet slapping against the marshy ground. He ran with head held down, rifle clutched tightly in his hands, praying none would follow him too intently. After several tense minutes they hicks gave up the chase, retreating back into their homes to lick their wounds.

It was nothing short of a miracle that he found no other creatures that night.

* * *

 **AN: Dashing is is my favorite character to write, heck, he practically writes himself. Also, the motel attack was the second scene I had in my mind for this story when I initially conceived it and I'm blown away by the support from the community, thank you all so much for your continued to support! :) I couldn't do this without you.  
**


	9. The Beach

_The sound of the surf gently lapping against the rusty lower portions of Rivet City calmed him, carrying away some of the recent stresses. Gripping the nearest guardrail tightly due to an illogical paranoia of falling over, Charles gazed out over the greenish waters of the bay, the Jefferson Memorial barely visible in the distance, a beacon of hope and change for the Capital Wasteland, assuming everything involved in his father's plans went well._

 _"It's quite the view, isn't it son?" James asked, approaching the young man from behind, his loafers making little noise against the ancient aircraft carrier's flight deck. Clapping Charles' shoulder gently, the elder's gaze joined his son's looking down at the mass of water below, "I never get tired of seeing it…"_

 _"And Project Purity is going to clean up all of it?" Charles asked cautiously, brain still wracked with numerous questions that his father had only half-answered or brushed aside without even the aforementioned courtesy of half-answer. It was as if there were still some secrets James wanted to keep hidden from his son. Yet it was obvious that Purity really meant something to his father, this dream of clean water for all, he wasn't lying about that._

 _It had to be, he'd abandoned his son for that dream._

 _"That's right." James' expression took on a far-away look, "I am the alpha and the omega,_ _the Beginning and the End. To the thirsty I will give water without cost from the spring of the water of life." He muttered the verse absent-mindedly under his breath, eyes following the current within the bay._

 _"Was it worth it?" Charles asked softly, the breeze ruffling his hair and carrying away his words. Still, Dad had better ears than most._

 _"What was that, son?" He asked in that gentle tone of a father trying to reclaim lost time and well aware of his own shortcomings. His courage failed and rather than continue with the rather potent line of conversation he'd intended, Charles went a different route._

 _"Will it work?" Gesturing over the bay with an open hand, the Lone Wanderer continued blundering forward, "The power requirement for the generator alone is going to be enormous, not to mention filters and cleaning agents, plus maintenance." He paused, turning away from the bearded face and back towards the water. "We've got our work cut out for us."_

 _"That we do," James admitted with a chuckle, patting his son on the back, "But now I'm not working alone." Ruffling his son's mop of hair happily, the doctor said, "You've got your mother's brains, and a determination the likes of which I've not seen in a long time. We're going to do great things together, you and I, son." He looked back out over the bay one last time, even as Dr. Li and the team of scientists began to gather for the short, though not without risk, jaunt over to the Jefferson memorial._

 _In that moment, a smile stole across Charles' face, warmed by the child-like nature of his father's gesture. Taking advantage of how he felt in that moment, the Lone Wanderer wrapped his dad in a tight embrace, "I love you, dad." He told James softly, resting his head against the strong shoulder he remembered from childhood._

 _His dad put his own arms gently around his son and answered, "I love you too, Charles."_

* * *

There was that same sound of surf lapping against something nearby. The gentle breeze rustling his mound of unkempt hair as the salty smell of sea air came drifting subtly through the space around him. However, unlike Rivet City's deck, there was no cold, reinforced steel beneath his feet, but a combination of coarse sand and slowly encroaching water. He wasn't standing either, but rather lying on his face, the stubble of his beard coated with damp sand, and he was in excruciating pain.

The dufflebag lay in the surf before him, contents hidden behind the closed zipper. His lever-action rifle was still gripped tightly in his claw-like grasp, sturdy construction leaving the weapon undamaged despite current climate. His sleep pants were damaged and tattered, though thankfully still protected his modesty but that was all. He found himself without shirt or shoes, blood slowly trickled from numerous deep cuts on his feet and back, mixing with the surf into darkly red foam. Sand ground into the wounds along his back and side, blending with the glass and blood coating those areas.

He was on a beach and that was all he recalled. Then slowly, agonizingly slowly, his memory began to return. He'd run through the swamp, run away from the swampfolk until he could hear the waves, feel the sand beneath bloody feet. Then the agony proved too much and he'd collapse.

Remarkably no one had cut his throat in the night.

Pushing himself to his hands and knees, the stinging pain from BB's embedded in his chest proving maddeningly agonizing, Charles instinctively reached for the tweezers in his vest pouch before slapping his forehead when he remembered they'd still been inside the pouches of a garment left behind in the burning motel.

Still, the realization that infection would likely kill him if the wounds weren't treated prompted action, so Charles crawled a few inches deeper into the sea, submerging himself in the water.

The salty, irradiated sea water stung him with pain almost worse than that of the embedded glass, but as he felt the sand wash away he knew the alternative would be far less pleasant.

He lay in the water for an uncountable period of time, debating just how much survival was worth in that moment. It'd be so easy to crawl a little bit deeper, dunk his head in the sea and end it all…

Maybe it was the old Christian teaching, or maybe Marguerite's words about Riley were still bouncing around in his head but for whatever reason he couldn't just end it. Grudgingly, he forced himself to rise on wounded feet and totter towards his dufflebag, mostly in the mad hope he'd stashed some Med-x inside, both for the practical purpose of dealing with the pain and the not-so noble one of stopping the itching skin and damp sweat conquering his form. Withdrawal on top of every other thing currently wrong with his body was almost too cruel to think of. Alas, his dreams of a hidden chem stash were for naught as it seemed that sledgehammer had crushed every last one he'd possessed.

The rest of the contents were, aside from the plush face of Theodore still smiling happily up at him and the well worn old ballcap bearing the Vault-Tech logo, mostly depressing. The new Vault suit was good, seeing as he had some kind of clothing; however, until he got the glass out of his back it wouldn't be ideal. Wild Bill's sidearm had survived the battle, but aside from the ammunition currently in the chamber no additional rounds had been packed. He still had his baseball bat and trench knife, and half a box of shotgun shells, now useless without a shotgun and a handful of bullets for the lever-action rifle. The only pleasant news was the half-finished glass bottle of whiskey that had somehow stowed away in the bottom of the duffle, next to an old can of potato crisps.

Figuring there was no point in waiting, Charles uncapped the bottle and drained it. The whiskey burned pleasantly down his throat, by far the most pleasant, if not the only positive, sensation currently felt by his body. Letting the bottle fall in the sand by his feet, Charles picked up the duffle bag as carefully as his could, gently feeling his back as best he could for a patch of unbroken flesh where he could lay it. The few nasty cuts he added along his hands were the price paid, but a suitable section was located where the strap wouldn't push the glass deeper into his body. Loading the lever-action rifle until it was full Charles glanced about in all directions, hoping vainly for something that might point back towards familiar territory. Alas, no such landmark existed.

However, along the beach off in the distance, was a darkened huddle of shapes suggesting some form of civilization. Figuring he really didn't have any better options, Charles gingerly picked his way down the beach towards it.

His stomach growled hungrily and his throat was dry but without anything to really sate either bodily demand, the almost chaplain grit his teeth and kept moving. The closer he got to the blobs, the more detail came into focus. They were square in shape, a dull, drab, green canvas draped over metal, bearing a red cross for a logo. These tents, judging by the design and symbol, had been part of some medical relief effort. That suggested medication would be present.

With cautious optimism, Charles approached the first tent, rifle aimed forward in steady hands. Pushing aside the canvas door carefully, he found the interior about what he'd expect from something long abandoned. A rusty bed frame sank into the sand while a wood desk rotted away to nothing in the corner. A small operating table had overturned; spilling syringes, all empty, scalpels and other surgical tools, while the tray to which they belonged had almost vanished beneath rising sands, visible metal so dull and tarnished it was barely recognizable.

Yet none of those features interested him, rather, the tell-tale white shade and square shape of the sealed medical container attracted all his attention. Almost diving for the object, Charles scrambled towards it, dropping his rifle in the process. The container was locked, which was both exciting and disheartening. A locked first-aid kit suggested no one had already looted its contents, but without any bobby pins, getting it open would be somewhat of a challenge.

But a driving need was coursing through his body and no mere lock would stop it. Retrieving his trench knife from the dufflebag and squatting before the first aid kit, the Lone Wanderer jammed the point of his blade into the old lock and jimmied it until the rusted metal snapped off. Discarding the useless scrap, Charles popped the lid open.

Inside the box rested two stimpaks, which he took happily, stowing both within the duffle, a solitary dose of Rad-x, a stash of gauze and an elongated can bearing the words "purified water" stamped into it in blocky, government style lettering. Unfortunately, there wasn't any Med-x, which seemed to intensify the itching.

However, the water was something worth having and he cracked it open, drinking down the can's contents gratefully. It was refreshingly cool, a glorious contrast to the rising murky heat he'd learned to anticipate from the island during daylight hours.

Wrapping the gauze tightly around his battered feet in an attempt to halt the bleeding, Charles tottered back to a standing posture, picked up his rifle and moved on to the second tent.

Unlike the first however, this tent proved occupied. The bed frame was unrusted, with a sturdy mattress placed atop it, carefully cleaned. The desk in this tent was likewise maintained, a powered terminal sitting atop it, while numerous small pieces of furniture, such as chairs and end tables, were scattered about, many groaning beneath the weight of packs, pouches and various miscellaneous supplies. The owner was standing in the dead center of the tent, a double-barrel shotgun held in unshaking hands, staring down the barrel of his rifle without flinching. Her hair was a messy tangle of deep black, with squinty eyes of a cool green resting in a face more grime than skin. Aside from the clothes of Brahmin-hide she wore, rugged and patched, the only notable object was the silver necklace hanging around her neck. It was an object made with exquisite craftsmanship the silver carefully worked and reworked the chain ending in a cross with a small stretch of broken road moving beneath it.

His memories from lessons with Father Daniel returned his brain finally connecting the symbol with a page from an old text book. "You're with the Abbey of the Road," he managed to croak out, doubting his own luck at finding such a person in this godforsaken island. "Or," the cold logical mind of a survivor reared its head and he stated bluntly, "You killed that person and took the necklace, in which case I'm a dead man." Looking down at his own rifle he added, "Assuming you can pull the trigger faster than me." He stood in the tent's entrance, swaying slightly from pain and slow blood-loss, "So, what's it going to be?"

"Fortunately for you," she told him in an almost sing-song voice, "It's the former." She lowered the barrels of her shotgun, aiming them towards the sandy ground. Taking one hard look at him she muttered, "Honestly though, I'm not sure how you're still alive…"

"Neither am I…" Charles admitted, letting the rifle slip from his fingers as he collapsed to his knees, finally letting the pain drive him to the ground, yet the missionary's hands were already gripping him.

"Alright, into the chair with you," she told him in a tone he'd consider flippant if he wasn't so grateful for the assistance. She sat him down in a simple wicker chair, bracing his chest against the headrest so as to allow her maximum exposure to his injured torso. It must have looked even worse than it felt because at the sight of the glass encrusted patch of skin he called a back, the woman hissed sharply through her teeth.

"Oh dear," she murmured softly, rummaging around in her first aid kit for some tools he couldn't see, "You're fortunate the Lord sent you to me, stranger," she told him clinically, "Otherwise one of these would have festered for sure, and you'd have died, in agony I might add, if the Mirelurks didn't get you first." The mental images accompanying that line of logic weren't pleasant.

"Why are you helping me at all?" He told her between gritted teeth in anticipation for the coming psudo-surgery, "You don't know anything about me."

"Oh," she told him rather sagely, "I know plenty about you." Before he could make any sort of pithy response, she'd shoved a small glass vial containing a brownish looking liquid into his hand. "Drink this; you'll need it to numb the pain of his process. I assure you, I will be as gentle as possible with you, but it will still not be as much as you'd like."

"You don't have Med-x?" He grumbled, disappointed partially from a desire to satisfy his addiction and partially to avoid ingesting the foul-looking liquid.

The missionary clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "Used all up on various ungrateful sods like yourself." There was a chipper tone to the voice that removed much of the venom from the words themselves. "Honestly, it looks terrible, but the sap of the great punga, carefully diluted to remove much of the hallucinogenic effect, acts as a pain-reliever like no other medicine. So drink it down because I have roughly one church window's worth of glass in your back I think we'd both like to get out."

Finding no fault in that logic, Charles drank the sap. It proved surprisingly thick, almost like syrup with a bitter taste reminiscent of old tarberries long gone sour. Still, he managed to chock it down and instantly experienced its effects. His vision blurred slightly, he felt woozy and disorganized suddenly very grateful for the chair he was braced against. The faint sounds of tearing flesh echoed behind him, accompanied by little tangs of pain, incredibly muted compared to the agony he'd felt crawling along the beach. The first piece of glass hit the side of some metal bowl the missionary was using for collection purposes with a loud ting.

"So," Charles began slowly, trying to make awkward small talk as best he could, "I didn't catch your name?" It seemed only proper he have some way to address the woman polite enough to operate on his battered frame.

"That's because I didn't offer it," she told him with an amused snort, pulling a second chunk of window pane free of his back. After a pause long enough to make Charles wonder exactly how serious she was, the woman chuckled warmly and introduced herself. "My name is Marcella, if you care for such things." She yanked a third piece, rather haphazardly if he was honest, free in a warm trickle of blood. "Oh dear…" She mumbled, clearly hoping he wouldn't hear the comment. Taking a rag and applying pressure to the wound that seemed to suddenly sting far more than the others, the numbing sensation of the sap not withstanding she added "What do they call you?"

"Charles," he responded with a grunt, wincing slightly at the various pangs along his back, "My name is Charles."

"Well Charles, a pleasure to make your acquaintance, as strange as this initial meeting is," Marcella told him simply. Though he couldn't see her expression he assumed she was smiling, the missionary gave off a pleasant impression, weapon or not.

 _To be fair, on this godforsaken island I'd be suspicious if she DIDN'T carry a gun._

"So, Marcella," he stated, phrasing her name slowly in an attempt to ensure accuracy at his initial attempt, "What brings you to the paradise that is Point Lookout?"

"Since you've already properly deduced my religious affiliation," She told him simply; "I suppose you've already used that information to deduce my purpose."

"You're here to spread the word of the Lord," he said bluntly, "And you've picked the most hellish place to do so." He paused, letting Marcella do her work momentarily while he pondered what else might be. "But that's not all, is it?" He mused aloud, resisting the urge to stroke his chin with the greatest of effort, not wanting to tear any ligaments that hadn't already been damaged, if at all possible. "Abbey of the Road…" He tried to recall Father Daniel's teachings during his tenure as a chaplain apprentice, "A post-war denomination of Christianity. While their teachings are traditional considered orthodox they do hold an unusual interest in acquiring religious artifacts of the old world and many of their missionaries are sent out with a specific target in mind for retrieval." He quoted from memory, even after the passage of time and heavy chem use Father Daniel's insistence on repetitive readings and memorization had served him well.

"I see you've also read 'Brother Hick's Guide to Religions in the Wastelands of Former America," Marcella stated approvingly, holding the rag in one hand while taking out another piece of glass with the other. "Ghouldom may have been God's gift to that one, preserving that great scholarly mind for many years, allowing his work to become widespread."

"It wasn't the most tedious volume I consumed," Charles admitted grudgingly, wishing he could see exactly what she was doing with the cloth and tweezers, "but you didn't answer my question about the artifact."

"All top secret, I'm afraid," she told him with false gravity, "All very hush hush, if I told you I'd have to kill you." She paused a moment, discarding a small pile of glass splinters into the bowl with a tinkling that reminded Charles of falling shell cases. "You answer me this, Charles," she probed while removing the rag from his back, evidently feeling confident enough that he wasn't going to bleed to death, a decision that pleased him greatly, "Where does a scavenger read an obscure volume on post-war religion? It's not exactly in common circulation."

Charles chuckled, the differences between his past and present life standing starkly opposed. "Would you believe I was training to be a chaplain?" He asked with a dark chortle, awaiting her response.

"Yes," she told him without a hint of sarcasm or jest.

"Why?"

"You have the spark of nobility, a gentle soul and calm morality that suggests you were once destined for a higher calling." She made a slight clicking of your tongue, "Though I suspect from your current predicament, the almighty has had a change of plans for you."

Momentarily taken aback at the compliment, Charles sat temporarily stunned, pondering exactly how he'd respond. At length, he determined he could answer Marcella's unasked question. "I did enjoy it," he admitted, "Though my faith has been shaken by the Capital Wasteland I think I would have made a decent chaplain."

"What happened?"

"My father left the Vault, and everything went to hell." He told her as simply as he could, reducing the traumatic events of his life into a single sentence in a way that surprised him, "I went after him. It didn't end well."

"And now you're running away because of that?"

"Among other reasons."

Feeling perhaps it was best not to pry too deeply into a man's struggles Marcella dropped the matter, continuing to work as best she could on his back. "This isn't the way to go about it, you know." It was spoken so cryptically, daring Charles to chase after the answer.

"Do what?" He responded as cautiously as he could, chewing his lip thoughtfully, bracing for a lecture that, oddly enough, he was sure would be reminiscent of his father's.

"Deal with your problems," as if he'd expected another answer. "You know this, I think, deep down inside, but you're afraid you've gone too far, you've hurt too many people and they'll never accept you back. That there can be no forgiveness for your selfishness, nor can you bear to forgive those who've wronged you." Another pause, another piece of glass carefully removed.

"I suppose there might be something to what you're saying…" Charles admitted, wondering exactly what it was that made him so willing to divulge his emotions with the woman he didn't know. Maybe, in her own way, she reminded him of Father Daniel, a man he still missed. "I don't suppose you take confession?" He asked mirthfully, glancing towards the ground with a slight chuckle.

"Confession is good for the soul," she said sagely, as if that were an answer to the question. After realizing that told him exactly nothing she added, "Not formally, but I'd be happy to listen."

"I don't know…" The Lone Wanderer mumbled, tripping over his words nervously, "The shit I've seen, and done since leaving DC…" Mentally he slapped himself for revealing the location of his home to the missionary. Admittedly it wasn't that big a deal, but he still needed to be careful. Point Lookout wasn't a place visited by the weak or meek and every piece of information given up was something he couldn't take back. "I don't know if confession is even going to help…"

"You've read the scriptures," Marcella stated rather than asked, drawing on what he'd already told her about his near-chaplaincy, "And thus I assume you'd remember Jesus' parable of the prodigal son?"

Charles nodded," Yeah, but I'm a hell of a lot worse than that kid was," he shook his head, wishing again as his skin started to crawl, that the missionary had packed some Med-x. Or whiskey.

 _The sight of that moonshine going up in flames is going to haunt me until the day I die…_

"You know what, friend?" She told him in a tone far more serious than he anticipated. "I doubt that very much." With a satisfied, "ah-ha," she pulled free the final bit of glass, rubbing a fresh cloth across his back in an attempt to clean it of blood and sand. "Prop your feet up on this stool," she instructed, sliding the three-legged contraption across the floor. He did as instructed, wincing at the sight of his own battered appendages, with little bits of glass likewise protruding. A glance towards his chest, quite clinical in nature, led the missionary to state, "We'll need to dig those out while we're at it," gesturing towards the two metal BB's embedded in his torso.

"It's been uncountable days since my last confession," Charles told her simply, gazing up towards the ceiling, "Since the last I've killed plenty, man, beast and machine, though I am proud to say every one of them deserved it." He paused, mentally reliving the events at the Jefferson Memorial. "But I didn't stop the death of my father…And I never repaired the rift the separated us." He felt his eyes water at the thought of Dad's body, fallen against the security glass, sliding down the bulkhead to the cold metal floor.

"After that, I tried to go home, help my friends, make some amends…" He paused, trying to find a way of explaining himself without giving away to many details. "But it didn't end well, or anywhere close to that. So I left. I abandoned all my friends who still needed me, trusted me and fled without telling anyone where I was going… I confess that…well…I wanted to die."

Rather than yell or scream, Marcella did something entirely unexpected in response to that statement. She asked a one word question, "Why?"

"What do you mean?" He responded abruptly, honestly unprepared for that question.

"Why do you want to die?"

"I guess I was done with everything. I didn't think I had anything to live for, anything worth having. My father was gone; Amata threw me out of my own home. The Enclave stole our work and just as many raiders roam the Capital Wasteland as did when I set out from Vault 101." He paused, sorting through the tangle of emotions that had brought him to the island far away from Riley, Charon and Jericho. "I guess it would have been more convenient to eat my shotgun," he admitted, glancing across the room towards the lever-action rifle lying in the sand.

"But you couldn't?" The missionary asked slowly, washing the muck and grime from his feet with a cloth dipped in antiseptic. The stinging of the cleaner working through the cuts along his flesh was exquisite, even with the numbing sensation of the punga working through his bloodstream. "You couldn't bring yourself to end it, so you heard about the most dangerous place you could, strung yourself out on chems and charged head-first, hoping that something would end it for you."

"Basically," he admitted with a dark chuckle, unable to fault her logic in any way. He knew exactly how miserable that sounded, but that's what it was. Sure he thought about Riley, the words of Marguerite ringing around in his mind like a siren, but he wasn't sure how he felt. Even if she was right, and he really did carry a torch for the mercenary, there was nothing to be done, she was in DC and he was here, without caps to pay a passage back home, a chem-addled alcoholic never preacher who'd run away, rather than man up.

"If you want to die so badly," Marcella asked him simply, stitching up the wounds along his feet with needle and thread, "Why'd you let me treat this?" She gestured to the various gruesome injuries along feet and back before looking over his bare chest, noting the shoulder wound he'd sustained at the covered bridge, "Why did you go through the effort of treating that?" He had no answer, perhaps there wasn't one.

"I don't know," he admitted, as the missionary wrapped his feet in fresh bandages and gauze. "Habit I guess."

"Maybe," she told him knowingly, "Or maybe you want to live more than you believe." Finishing with his feet, Marcella took her tweezers, rinsed them in her bowl of water, and began removing the BB's buried in his flesh. "The Lord has brought you this far for a purpose, Vault Dweller. He's brought you here, to Point Lookout, for a reason. And I believe, deep inside yourself, you know what that reason is."

He wanted to disagree with her, he wanted to yell and loudly rebuke this madwoman for the absurdity of her statements, and yet…he couldn't. She was right, he'd fought for survival every day on the island, he'd tried to make himself busy even if it was for the wrong reasons, he'd felt the pull to help Desmond and shut it down.

In that moment, he remembered the panicked face of a mother, crying out for help. The woman standing on the dock, begging him to look for her daughter, the woman he'd completely ignored and tried to forget about. He was in it for himself, and no one else, days of charity long gone. But he remembered her, the name of her daughter Nadine, and deep down inside himself he remembered how he felt when his father left him, he remembered the lessons that same father had attempted to teach him when they'd been reconnected. He remembered Father Daniel, his wire spectacles, and constant frown, but also the gentleness of spirit, kindness in his actions, and how much Charles' had admired him for those traits.

He knew what he had to do.

"Thank you for everything, miss," he told her honestly enough, taking one of the stimpaks out from among the rest of his goods. Confident he wouldn't cause any major tissue damage he stabbed the needle into his shoulder, feeling the healing agents kick in almost immediately. Grinding his teeth to keep from grimacing in front of Marcella and conveying just how much the effects of the stimpak hurt, Charles tried to ride out the pain. As the various small cuts and bruises along his body healed, he finally allowed himself a solitary puff outward, a mighty breath of pure exhaustion.

"You seem mighty sure of yourself all of a sudden," Marcella noted, looking at him with a solitarily raised eyebrow, "What, may I ask, has suddenly occurred to you?"

He looked across the tent towards the missionary and with a rising tone of confidence in his voice stated, "I've been asked to look into something on the island. If I'm going to make my way back to DC and try to make amends for my behavior, I can't do that without first helping a friend here on Point Lookout." After chewing his lip a moment, unsure how exactly to proceed, Charles enquired, "Are you absolutely sure you don't have any Med-x?"

The answer, regrettably, was yes.

* * *

A low mist hung over the marsh, bloatflies and bloodbugs buzzed about the various festering pools of swamp water, looking for an early morning meal. But, the sight of the man in the blue jumpsuit bearing the yellow numbers 101 seemed, for some reason, too much for them and they flew off to easier prey.

The Vault Dweller strode confidently forward, sidearm resting on his waist, a trench knife sitting comfortably in a shoulder-mounted leather sheath, easily position for a swift draw, laid out in a manner to avoid the strap of the massive grey dufflebag, slung across his back. In his hands rested a smooth wood and steel lever-action rifle, confidently held with a killer's posture. Charles was on a mission, despite limited supplies, a horrific itching across every inch of his skin and the pounding in his skull screaming for another smooth draft of moonshine. He ignored them all, tramping on towards the towering stone and wrought iron structure looming over the surrounding swamps behind a twisted fence of black iron.

Brushing aside the stale potato crisp crumbs that constituted his morning breakfast while wishing his dufflebag held more food, Charles got his first good look at the Ark and Dove Cathedral.

It was an ancient building, likely once Catholic judging by the remaining, albeit dulled, glass still sitting in the various windows, miraculously unshattered. The stones that built its walls were crumbling but somehow still upright, as if an unseen force held the cathedral together. The massive turreted roof was caved inward in several places, and a few strange birds were just barely visible, nesting in the rafters. The lawn was overgrown, with tall grass sprouting up everywhere but the cracked limestone grave markers and the shattered concrete path. It was a huge building, larger than most he'd seen in the Capital Wasteland, and it gave off a dark and somber aura, as if the building itself were a crouching Deathclaw, waiting to pounce at the first hint of provocation.

Unlike the Cathedral itself however, the surrounding iron and stone fence was well kept, free of rust and damage. The tribals that lived within the Ark and Dove must have contributed significant resources towards the maintenance of this wall, not unreasonably so. He'd survive through a gross combination of luck and more luck, with a little bit of skill thrown in, and therefore knew that if this group of tribals and the local swampfolk didn't particularly get along surviving without a wall would be an ugly affair.

The gate leading into the Cathedral's grounds was particularly impressive and clearly modernized. The old iron bars supported with planks of corrugated steel and thick lumber, clearly taken from the swamps of Point Lookout long after the original gate had been set.

On one of the supporting pillars, facing outward towards the foreboding marshes, was a simple communications system, one button and one speaker exactly like the one outside Ranger Compound. Ignoring the suddenly flash of orange hair in his mind, Charles approached the box and pushed the button inward. The crackling of the speaker echoed eerily across the near silence of Point Lookout's marsh, signifying that it was ready. Leaning closer, Charles spoke, "Hello? Is anyone inside?" A pause, no answer. So he tried again, "Hello? Anyone? I've heard about those of you who dwell within the Cathedral. I need your help, I want your knowledge. I want to be one of you." Releasing the button on the inter-communication system, Charles stood by the little metal box and waited. And he waited, and he waited.

The vault suit was itching against the sweat of his neck, the fabric restrictive and tight despite the newness of its creation. He wasn't sure if there was anything else he could do, if there was any way to make sure that his message got across and almost buzzed the intercom again.

Then he heard the crackling of sound from the other end and one of the tribals spoke to him.

* * *

 **AN: Sorry for the delay, but I had an idea for a oneshot and wanted to get it done. (Read "The Bunker" on my page if you are a fan of FO4) Don't worry about Daring, Riley and the rest, we'll see what they're up too in the next chapter. As for the power of the Punga...Well, I've been waiting a long time to write about that and I hope you like what I've got in store...**


	10. Acceptance

**AN: Apologies for the delay, I've been incredibly busy of late. I'm hoping to have other chapters up with more frequency. Thank you to all for your patience during the delay.  
**

* * *

"Are you sure about this guy, sir?" Donavan inquired with the same tone he'd started using whenever asking Daring Dashwood a question, a sort of subtle humility that suggested the tech was one hundred percent convinced his own opinion on the matter was wrong and he merely wanted to hear the elderly adventurer explain why.

The jaunt to the small commercial airport several dozen klicks away from Rivet City had been entirely uneventful. The size of the party, totaling eight now with Dogmeat included, discouraged all but the most reckless raider, and the Super Mutant menace, normally so prevalent in this portion of the Capital Wasteland, was oddly muted. Riley wanted to attribute that to the Brotherhood of Steel's campaign against the greenskins, but somehow doubted that were the case. It almost seemed like the mutants were in hiding, building their strength for something truly unpleasant. Yet even those thoughts were pushed aside with concern for Charles' well being. What Daring said about Point Lookout…The thought of him trapped in that place chilled her more than she cared to admit.

Dogmeat bounced ahead, leaping over rubble and rock, seeking whatever had caught the attention of his senses, likely nothing more than a molerat. Even so, the sight of his wagging tail and excited, smiling features helped take Riley's mind off the danger Charles was in, if only for a few moments, before her naturally protective instincts returned.

Dashwood had been remarkably coy about what they'd find at the airport, or even where it was exactly, as if he thought his traveling companions would object if they knew the true destination.

 _He's probably right, certainly Jericho might, hell, Jericho probably will even if we find a fully stocked monorail with a suit of Power Armor for everyone…_

It wasn't until they actually neared the airport that Riley noticed the rising smoke. Someone, or multiple someones, had a fire going implying civilization, however temporary, had come to the old airport. Jericho and Charon, both of whom were taking the lead aimed their weapons towards the pillar of smoke hunching slightly to reduce the chance of being shot dead. Whistling for Dogmeat to return Charon waved the dog back, allowing the group's forward scout to take some measure of protection behind the guns of his more sentient companions. RL-3 hovered about the rear with weapons readied whispering fanatically about purging communists, both Chinese and Canadian, Riley couldn't really make it out. She was with Dashwood and Donavan near the center of the group, the tech providing an armed escort and Riley keeping the battered map level for Daring's gaze, marking the tattered parchment at the varying points instructed using a pen she'd brought along for such a purpose.

The old tarmac seemed in relatively good condition, almost exceptionally so considering the surrounding wreckage. The area was clean, swept free of dust and stone, no doubt by the figures gathered around the several garbage can fires. A small wall of portable steel barriers ringed the cleaner portion, erected in a manner that could provide modest protection to a crouching man or small child, more for the purpose of deterrent than actually keeping out anything bigger than a molerat. Taking one good look at the setup, Riley was convinced there'd be no way over that barrier without alerting the figures inside its defenses. A few crudely manufactured guard towers broke the cover at various intervals, flanked by skull studded metal poles, proudly displaying the remnants of those who'd attacked the airport, unsuccessfully. A small picket gate rested between two of those aforementioned guard towers, providing an obvious entrance into the camp, at least, for those who wished to do so with some semblance of peace. Strung between two tower wrought iron poles flanking the gate, so it hung above the entrance as a grim warning, was the body of a Talon Company mercenary, sagging loosely against the hemp bindings holding the corpse aloft. Beside the gruesome display was a flagpole, proudly displaying a flag Riley hadn't seen before. It was olive green, shade identical to the military-style tents she could vaguely make out within the compound, and bore only a single symbol, a white skull with an X drawn across its forehead.

Stowing the map within a leather belt pouch, Riley determined this was the group Daring had been so coy about, pulling Infiltrator off her back in an attempt to feel more secure. Even with the assault rifle in her hands the effect was limited. Taking a quick glance through the scope she managed to get a glimpse of the figures. While she was still too far away to make out any distinctive facial features she could determine the general layout of equipment.

There was a certain uniformity to their appearance, although not nearly as strict as the Talon Company mercs she'd run often afoul of. Each tried to dress resembling an old US military look, with green combat fatigues or something close enough accompanied by old helmets, combat armor and bandanas. One of them seemed to be wearing nothing but a harness, combat pants and a beret. Behind the shirtless man hovered a gaudily painted Mr. Gusty, puttering about the barrier, a patrolling pattern clearly programmed into the robot's mainframe.

Before anyone could stop him, Dashing shoved his way past Charon and Jericho, approaching the gate without fear. The Bushmaster rested on his back, rather than in his hands and Riley knew the sweatervest and fedora would offer little protection against the weapons carried by the militaristic band of killers, of which she estimated there were about a dozen she could see, not counting the Gutsy. Holding his hands high, in greeting rather than surrender, Dashwood shouted, "Hey? Sergeant Tucker? Are you in there, you old son of a bitch? Daring's here to see you!"

The men and women around the fire jumped to action, drawing weapons and rushing towards the gate, pointing their various guns towards the old man. A quick head count showed one laser rifle, several combat rifles, one Chinese Assault rifle, a combat shotgun and a solitary plasma rifle, a far greater arsenal than that on their side. Still, that didn't stop everyone, save Dashwood, from raising their weapons in response, the sound of clicking safeties and cocking chambers echoing across the Wasteland stillness.

"Oh posh," Dashwood stated rather grumpily, "Everyone put down your guns, there's absolutely no need for this nonsense."

"How the hell are we supposed to trust these guys?" Jericho growled, jabbing his Chinese Assault rifle in the direction of the mercenary band, "They've got the firepower to take on a friggin army!"

"I trust you, you smelly old bastard, and you're far less pleasant than these chaps here," the old adventurer quipped with a chuckle, taking off his fedora and waving it towards the angry looking mob, "I don't see Tucker in there." He stated rather than asked, with the same tone of slight disappointment another would use to lament a lack of Nuka-cola variety in one's favorite bar.

The shirtless mercenary responded, jabbing the barrel of his laser rifle towards the old man, "Who the shit are you? I don't know you! What the hell makes you think you can just walk up to our outpost and demand to see the Sarge?" The comically oversized blonde mustache drooping over his protruding lips took away from the gravity of the tone, and Riley almost wanted to chuckle. Still, there was a killer's steel in the eyes behind the mustache that wasn't a laughing matter, so Infiltrator remained focused on the man's chest. If battle was joined he wouldn't be walking away.

"Don't get any bright ideas," Charon growled at the lead mercenary, yellow teeth gritted, fingers tensing around his shotgun's trigger, "I'd hate to mess up that haircut," gesturing with his weapon for emphasis. The fact that what of the mercenary's hair was visible beneath the simple military beret was a mere flattop, didn't seem to influence the ghoul.

"Freak! I'll put you in the ground where you belong…" A different mercenary snarled, finger tightening around her trigger, itching to fire. Riley herself mentally prepared for bloodshed, whatever Daring had hoped to accomplish by meeting the mercenary group wasn't going to be happening the way he'd intended. Hopefully the mercs didn't need to be alive to provide whatever the old man had been looking for.

"Wait!" A gruff voice from behind the mercenaries shouted across the tarmac, echoing throughout the emptiness, "Gunners, stand down! That's an order!" Grudgingly, in response to the command, the weapons were lowered, the shirtless Gunner spitting on the ground as he aimed the laser rifle towards the tarmac. After a moment, Riley waved for her own party to do so, which Jericho did with a notably vitriolic curse.

"That's the voice I was hoping to hear," Dashwood stated rather cheerfully, opening the gate and sliding into the compound without hesitation. Dogmeat trotted after him, likewise seeming oblivious to the heavily armed mercenaries standing all about them still appearing rather unhappy with their instructions. The old man pushed his way through the crowd with his typical devil-may-care flair towards the sound of the voice.

"How's he find the courage to do stuff like that?" Donavan whispered under his breath, trotting after Daring with a temperament that seemed almost identical to Dogmeat's.

"Because he's almost dead anyway," Jericho grumbled, pulling a packet of cigarettes free with grouchy monotony.

 _Someone's not happy._

Trying her best to emulate the same lack of concern the old man radiated, Riley followed, subtly slipping a piece of gum into her mouth, chewing nervously. That nervous tic might be noticed, but it was either that or tapping her foot, and the trained killers would certainly pick up that not so subtle gesture. Grinding the cherry-flavored gum into her molars, the mercenary captain followed Daring Dashwood into the compound, praying silently to whatever god was still listening that this exchange wouldn't end in a firefight.

Weaving her way through the tangle of bodies and weapons, Riley moved forward until Dashwood was in her sights again. The old, sweatervest wearing man stood tall and proud, hand outstretched for a shake, before another man who Riley assumed had been the one ordering these "Gunners" to stand down.

That man was tall and strong, with a hawk nose and sharply roman chin. His closely cropped black hair was hidden beneath a dark military-style cap, eyes concealed behind a pair of sunglasses. The face was a mess of scars and burns, with the letters B+ tattooed on his forehead in a dark red ink. A drooping handlebar mustache of the same color hung down over closed lips. A large cigar was clenched tightly between the teeth, emitting pleasant smelling smoke, vaguely remaindering her of a campfire.

Dark military boots on his feet, military camouflage pattern pants on his waist led up to a shirt of forest green covered by a US military jacket. A bullet-studded belt went around his waist, on which a large, aggressive-looking 10 Millimeter pistol and switchblade rested. A combat rifle hung loosely on his back, the handle appearing worn from use. This man stood with an air of subtle authority that clearly marked him as the, "Tucker," Daring had asked for.

At Tucker's right shoulder was another mercenary, this one a short, stocky woman, built like a bull. A crop of brilliantly red hair stuck outward over a face that was mostly hidden behind the old United States flag bandana wrapped around it. Only the eyes, an icy blue, were visible, squinting out at the intruders. A similar forehead tattoo was visible, only it read A-. Her attire was close to Tucker's, though with several plates of combat armor overtop the military-style fatigues and an unstrapped United States army helmet tottering atop her head, reminding Riley vaguely of the bobble-heads Charles kept in his Megaton home. The woman held an old MP-40 submachine gun in her battle-scarred hands, and gave off every impression she knew exactly how to use it. Unlike Tucker, who had an almost relaxed air about the entire situation, this woman seemed utterly wound and ready to lash out at any moment. Riley was certain that, if violence still came out of this meeting, the stocky woman with the bandana would be her first target, the shirtless man be damned.

Tucker looked down at Daring's outstretched hand with a raised eyebrow, "What the hell, old man?" He asked casually, blowing a cloud of smoke away from Dashwood, "You expect me to shake that? After all the crap you've put me through?"

Herbert Daring Dashwood, true to his name, didn't hesitate, "Your damn right I do, son. After I saved your ass more than once from that Deathclaw pack we ran afoul of near Salem. And that time I got you out of a Super Mutant stew pot, unscratched, with the caps intact. Or that one time the Mirelurk Queen had her claws around your entire damn Gunner company. Come to think about it, you owe me. Quite a bit, actually."

"You stole my girlfriend!" Sergeant Tucker bellowed at the smaller, older man, shifting his posture in an attempt to tower over him. Dashwood didn't back down, staring the bigger man in the eye, almost nose to nose except to avoid the burning tip of the cigar.

"Maybe you should have kept a better handle on her."

For one moment, Riley was afraid Dashwood had finally bit off more than he could chew, ready to rush in, guns blazing, to the old man's defense. Jericho, for his part, did his best not to snicker, muttering something under his breath that vaguely sounded like, "Old man's got a pair on him, that's for sure."

Then, out of the blue, Tucker erupted into a great belly laugh. "Daring, you old son of a bitch, how've you been?" The bulky merc wrapped the adventurer in a great bear hug, sliding his cigar to the side of his mouth to avoid causing damage to the wool sweatervest. Daring, for his part, returned the hug enthusiastically, clapping Tucker on the back with a surprising vigor.

"My back's killing me," he said with a wink implying something Riley would rather not picture," And I cut myself shaving this morning, otherwise I'm doing dandy."

"That's great," Tucker told him with all honesty, turning to face the stocky woman to his rear, "Molly? Stand down, this crotchety old piece of burnt leather is a friend of mine." The woman frowned, but lowered her MP-40 as instructed by the sergeant.

"I'll be damned," Charon murmured softly, "That's not how I expected things to go down."

"For once, zombie," RL-3 stated, rather more loudly than he no doubt intended, "We are in complete agreement."

If the banter in the background bothered the leader of the Gunners, he didn't show it. "How'd you know we were in DC?" The cigar-chomping mercenary added, looking quizzically towards his elderly friend, "You aren't on the memo list. Besides," he gestured with his cigar to the surrounding rubble, "We usually stay Commonwealth-side, that's our wheelhouse."

"Well I know Captain Wes hates your weaselly guts," Daring stated matter-of-factly, to which the sergeant nodded with a rueful smile, "And I know he hates the Capital Wasteland, too many damn Mutants. Plus the Talon Company is always undercutting the ops the Gunners do attempt. But, when the opportunity to expand comes along, you take it. But, seeing as you're not sure how well it's going to go, you send the guy you don't like."

"That sounds roughly accurate," Tucker admitted puffing a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke towards Riley, "Goddamn does Wes every hate me," there was a self-deprecating chuckle, accompanied by a dull snorting from Molly. "But he hates turning down caps more. Someone wants to steal Talon Company territory and start a few brush fires in the Capital Wasteland? He crosses his fingers and sends me. It's a win, win for the old bugger anyways. I live he gets paid, I die he never has to see my ugly mug again." He shrugged rather eloquently, "Hey, what can I say? It's a living."

"You seem to be doing alright," Donavan noted, gesturing towards the mercenary's corpse dangling from the poles above the gate, "Judging from that."

"We've got big guns," Molly muttered, shaking her head.

"Aye, that you do," Daring said in a chipper, sing-song voice that seemed a little too excited for Riley's tastes, "And I know you'd put those guns to good use." He paused, scratching his long white beard happily, "However, that wasn't what I was hoping you'd use to pay off your dept…"

"What debt?"

"The Super Mutant kitchen incident, remember?" The old man raised a bushy eyebrow," You went down there with a full team of Gunners, looking for a caps stash? Argyle and I saved you from being a mid-afternoon snack, still sorry about your men by the way…"

"Eh, Gord was an ass," Molly muttered, to which Tucker nodded half-approvingly.

"Okay, so maybe I do owe you for that one," The mercenary sergeant grumbled, looking down at the ground as if he'd much rather do just about anything other than give the sweater-wearing man his gun for free, "But the Deathclaws incident doesn't count!" He paused finally accepting that Dashwood wasn't leaving without his favor paid off. "Alright, who'd you want me to shoot?"

"Oh, I'm not looking for you to shoot anyone," Daring stated coyly, "If all goes well you'll not even have to draw that 10 MM." He glanced slyly towards the tents, as if trying to find something that Riley couldn't see, "You don't still keep Vera around do you?"

* * *

 _"Find the sap of the Mother Punga…Then your spirit will be free…"_

 _Hadn't he done that? He thought he did? Why were his hands so blurry? Everything was green? His stomach was on fire.  
"Find the sap of the Mother Punga, eat it, left your spirit fly free…When you've looked inside yourself then, only then, can you walk among our tribe."_

 _Why was he so sick? It was the sap, had to be. How much had he eaten? Only a little bit…Just a bite, a nibble, sickly sweet, going down his throat…like molasses and honey…Such a contrast to the taste of Mirelurk, eaten raw on the journey towards the massive fruit. It had been enormous… towering over him but now? Head was throbbing, stomach growling, twisting and leaping and growing higher towards the roof of the cavern…_

 _Yet now he knew he had to leave, had to stagger back towards the rickety plank door that opened up into the grotto where he'd found the plant and the 'Lurks, to find the open air and sun, be free of this headache, this nausea._

 _Why was everything so dark?_

 _Charles staggered to his feet, moving slowly away from the giant plant, sap still dripping down from where he'd bitten into it, like blood from a wound. Why was everything upside down? The trees shouldn't be growing down from the sky…That was all wrong…And why was it so dark? The torches that the tribals had used to light the path must have been blown out by some foul wind._

 _He was walking forward, boots dragging against the mud, Vault Suit so very restricting, when he realized how wet everything was…The water was up to his waste but the trees and starless sky was all wrong, still, still it was wrong..._

 _Yet the water didn't stop him, still he pressed on, forward trying to find the door that would take him back to the island. Then, something bumped against him, not a log, as it bent around him, smelling foul, sinking his heart with fear when he felt it._

 _Glancing down towards the object, half submerged in the murky, scum covered water, Charles recoiled in horror at the sight, falling backwards into the bog. It was a corpse, the body staring lifelessly upward towards him. Moria Brown, the enthusiastic, almost annoyingly so, shopkeeper and dear friend who he'd assumed was safe in Megaton. How'd she come here? How'd she met this horrid fate?_

 _He felt tears stinging his eyes, heard his own panicked screams echoing as if they'd come from another. He scrambled away from Moria, the bog water thrown aside by feet and hands as he dodged the body. Soon enough however, his flailing limbs struck another corpse and, in terror, he glanced down at Lucas Simms' limp face, hands reaching outward towards him. Charles fled again, making it nearly two feet before tripping over another body of a friend, falling face first in the slimy filthy water. It was a horrific crawl, Sarah Lyons, Donavan, Sydney, Charon, Jericho, Wernher, Father Daniel, Dogmeat, Butch, Jericho. All dead, all looking up at him with vacant eyes demanding to know why he hadn't saved them, why he'd let them down._

 _"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…."_

 _The last body was the hardest, he couldn't look at her, couldn't face her, he stepped over the fallen woman and scrambled onto the marshy land. He felt himself sink into the mud, but it was better than the bog of corpses, so he crawled forward as energetically as possible, shoveling mud past him as he moved. Yet his fingers found something curious as they flung aside the muck of the bog, something plastic._

 _Pulling the object free and brushing the filth away with an almost robotic compulsion, Charles saw it was a Vault-Tech bobblehead exactly like the ones he collocated back in DC. This particular version of Vault Boy was pointing forward, a cold sneer set on his plastic visage. Beneath the yellow and blue paint was the following inscription, "Charles, everything is your fault."_

 _With a scream of panic, the Lone Wander dropped the plastic man and fled further down the path, lashing out towards the reaching branches, tearing his suit on something he couldn't see. A second bobblehead appeared to be hovering in the air right in front of him, pointing exactly as the one before. Though Charles tried not to look at it, the inscription was somehow crystal clear, "You even killed your own mom. Not the nicest thing you could have done."_

 _He collapsed to his knees, huddling in a ball, unable to go forward, unwilling to go back, "Make it stop…" Charles whispered to whoever was listing, "Please, just make it stop."_

 _"It's not real, son," a calming, sagely voice that he instantly recognized said. Spinning around, Charles saw his dad, arms outstretched, walking slowly towards him. "This is all a hallucination, brought on by your own inner turmoil."_

 _"Huh?" Charles tearfully muttered looking up through blurry vision at the smiling, bearded face of his father. James drew closer and closer, before kneeling beside his son and resting his hand against the younger man's forehead. Dad's skin was remarkably cool against the burning sensation he felt._

 _"You've ingested Punga sap, a great quantity of it, and it's amplifying what you feel inside, making you see your worst fears as reality." He paused, letting his son acclimatize to his words, "But it's not real. Charles, my precious son, it's just a hallucination. Son," he cupped Charles' face with a smooth hand, "You need to let the guilt go. My death wasn't your fault, the deaths of the Project Purity staff wasn't your fault. You did everything you could, and then some."_

 _"So," Charles sniffed out, the throbbing in his head growing worse, almost like a blade cutting through his skull, "You aren't real, are you dad?" He asked the image of his father, a fresh grief ripping its way across his heart, "You're just a manifestation of my inner turmoil?"_

 _"I'm afraid so, Charles" the spectral James told him, wrapping his arms tightly around the Lone Wanderer and pulling him in tightly, "But that doesn't change what I said." He paused, as if formulating the best way forward. "When I was dying in that room, gazing across the glass towards you, my last thought was of you. How proud I was, how much everything I'd heard you did meant to me. Megaton, Riley's Rangers, The Pitt, even the small things, the water you'd give away, the subtle humanity you treated Ghouls with, all these things swelled my heart with pride. Even as my eyes closed, I knew I'd left the Capital Wasteland in good hands."_

 _"Dad…" The Vault Dweller finally looked up from his knees, gazing into the face that seemed so real it hurt him, "Dad I let you down, I left the Capital Wasteland behind. I didn't do what you wanted…I didn't save anyone."_

 _"You got Madison Li out of the Jefferson Memorial safely," James said firmly, his tone not allowing Charles any modicum of doubt regarding the importance of that simple action. "Without her this project will be well and truly dead, you, and only you, saved it. Do not ever forget that." He gestured towards the surrounding trees and muck with an almost callous disregard, "As for Point Lookout? You needed time to greave, son. You needed time to move forward and come to terms with everything you'd felt. With my leaving, death, Amata banishing you from 101, it was all so much, so fast; you never really had that chance." James paused, breathing out once through his nose, "Son, I'm sorry, I'm afraid I robbed you of that process."_

 _"Daddy…" Charles shook his head, tears running down his bearded face, "Why did you leave me?" The question he'd hinted at, wanted to ask, and thought he'd go to his grave not knowing finally out in the air, "I needed you."_

 _"I needed to make the Capital Wasteland better. I owed it to your mother. However," he paused, looking down lovingly at his son, "I was wrong. I wanted to protect you and I thought that leaving you behind in the Vault would keep you safe. Had I known the kind of man you'd become, what you'd do for DC…I would have told you what I was doing, brought you with me from the start." He paused, squeezing his teenage son tightly in his arms and refusing to let go, "Though, if I'd done that, we'd both be trapped in 112 with Braun right now… the Lord works in mysterious ways," he chuckled a little bit._

 _"That's what Father Daniel always said," Charles stated robotically, merely stating a fact, rather than allow the grief to overwhelm him, "I miss him."_

 _"I do too," James admitted, "That chaplain was one of the first to vouch for me when I turned up at 101 with you in my arms. When they told me the GOAT put you as his apprentice and the Vault's future chaplain, I was so proud. I knew with your compassionate heart and full mind you'd be perfect for it, they'd need someone like you."_

 _"I rather mucked up being a man of God," Charles told his dad with a coughing laugh that echoed more regret than mirth._

 _"I wouldn't say that," James riposted, "You may not be a chaplain, but there's more than one way to help the people of DC, which you've done over and over again." He ruffled his son's hair, like he did so many times before, nearly breaking Charles' heart in half with regret and loss, yet filling him with a joy he couldn't explain at the simple gesture. "And you aren't done yet, no matter what you might think. Charles, let go, let go of your guilt, let go of your grief. It's time to move forward."_

 _"How can I?" The Lone Wanderer mumbled, "I don't think I know anything else anymore."_

 _James paused, "Do you know why I named you after your mother?" Of all the statements that figment of his imagination Dad could have made, that was the one Charles expected least. When he shook his head no, his father continued, "Your mother was the strongest person I ever met. She was unfailingly cheerful, unwaveringly optimistic, strong, compassionate and loyal. Every time I wanted to quit, every time I wanted to give up and sink into despair it was Catherine who wouldn't let me. She'd make some quip about whatever it was that had us down and then keep working. When I looked into your tiny eyes the day you were born…I knew, I just knew, you had her heart, you had her spirit and you would far surpass me in every way. And I'd happily cheer you on, every step you took into the world that needed you desperately."_

 _"Wow," Charles sniffled, hugging his father back, "No pressure, right?" James chuckled but didn't say anything. His son sat silently in the muck, pondering everything his father had just said, "Dad, how do I do that? How do I live up to my name?"_

 _"You let go of the baggage, you let go of the grief, and you just be." James patted Charles above the heart, "I'll always be with you son, in here. So will your mother, and Father Daniel and everyone else you've lost. Don't be afraid, just be."_

 _There was a long pause, laden with deep though, finally, the younger man spoke, "I will try."_

 _"That's all I ask."_

 _A new voice, cold and harsh, cut through the fog and grief addled mind, "This is all very touching, but the time has come to wake up now." Charles looked past his father to see the suited form of Mr. Burke standing in waste-deep mud, expression clearly unhappy despite the sunglasses hiding his eyes. The suit he wore was stained with blood, two holes remaining in his chest from where Charles had shot him so long ago, back in Moriarty's saloon when he'd moved in with Simms for an arrest. In Burke's hands he held a miniature nuke, almost a perfectly replica of the one Charles had disarmed during his day in Megaton._

 _"Give me a moment," James said harshly, showing no concern in the face of the long dead man._

 _"You know how it works." Burke wasn't swayed, rising his hand high preparing to slam it down on the mini-nuke in his grip._

 _James turned and faced his son, "Charles, I love you, don't forget that."_

 _"I love you too dad."_

 _Then the world exploded._

* * *

He was outside the grotto, the mother of all headaches riding around in his skull and a horrifying taste running down his throat and tongue. Yet, despite the headache, the bad taste, lingering itching from Med-x withdrawal and general soreness from lying on the ground Charles felt good, far better than he'd been in a long time.

Pushing himself to his feet and shaking his head once in an attempt to loosen the cobwebs from his brain, the Lone Wanderer glanced towards the sun. High noon, he'd been in the cave most of the night, hallucinating or unconscious. How he'd managed to make it to the grotto entrance while tripping out of his mind was a miracle he didn't want to dwell too much on.

"If the tribals wanted someone with an open mind, I think I qualify now," he muttered to himself, taking a few shaky steps in the direction of the Ark and Dove. Fully confident he wasn't going to face plant in the muck; Charles took a few more, with full confidence, finally settling into a steady trot.

He had a mission to accomplish. He couldn't go back to DC without caps, he couldn't find caps without aiding Desmond, and he couldn't aid Desmond while wallowing in self pity. Remembering everything his father had said to him, Charles set his jaw in grim determination and plowed forward.

"Thanks dad," he told the spectral fragments, still lingering in his mind after the overwhelming potency of the Punga sap. "Thanks for everything."

* * *

 **AN: And so the plot thickens! Fun fact, Tucker was my second OC for Fallout 4. Besides, I love me my Gunners, so interesting. As for the hallucination scene, I wanted something personal and I really love it. I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it. Until next time!**


	11. A Meeting of Minds

**AN: I wholeheartedly apologize for this delay. Life interfered with my writing in a big way. (Nothing bad, don't worry :) ) However, I haven't forgotten about all of you and I fully want to finish this story. I promise future updates will be much faster.  
**

* * *

 _"Hey…wait up a second," Jericho rumbled from behind him, sounding about as concerned as the bandit ever did. Come to think of it, if Charles wasn't so exhausted, so drained, he might have actually been struck by everything that tone implied._

 _But now his father was dead._

 _Not only was his father dead, gunned down before his eyes by someone Elder Lyons had called "Colonel Autumn," but the Project was now firmly in the hands of the Enclave. In the darkness of early evening the energy fence built around the Jefferson Memorial glowed brilliantly, visible from miles away, dissuading raider, Super Mutant and Paladin alike from any attempted attack. Aside from Doctor Madison Li, who Charles had to drag away after he'd finally recovered enough of his faculties for Charon to stop dragging him, the rest of the staff were dead or missing. Project Purity was well and truly finished._

 _Elder Lyons had tried to talk him into staying, to fight the Enclave and recover the project and find the GECK like his father had wanted, but nothing would convince him. Not Sarah, not Lyons, not even vengeance. Charles was tired and he just wanted to go home. Brushing off the Brotherhood of Steel Elder with little thought of it, the Lone Wanderer gathered up his companions and began the slow trek towards Megaton._

 _They were still moving when Jericho finally spoke up. Honoring the request, Charles held up his hand for pause. Dogmeat accepted gratefully, flopping onto the ground with his tongue lapping at the air. RL-3 instantly went into guard mode, scanning the perimeter for enemies, no matter how unlikely any would appear this close to the Citadel. With Charon keeping his eyes forward, Charles waited as Jericho approached him rather sheepishly._

 _"Look kid," he began nervously, "We've been…friends?" The ex-raider asked hesitantly as if unsure that were the proper term for it. When Charles didn't say otherwise Jericho went on. "I know you and your dad…"_

 _"Don't." Charles cut him off sharply, rather harshly if he'd been willing to think about it, which he wasn't. "Just…don't." Looking over at the bandit, he asked, "You got any Jet on you?"_

 _"Come on man…" Surprisingly, the ex-raider seemed to have suddenly developed a conscience, at least in the moment. "You're a good kid, beyond a few smokes and a drink now and then you don't do this kind of shit. I'm old, trust me, Jet? Not…"_

 _"I don't care, give it to me." The ferocity in the tone surprised even Charles himself, as he held out his hand expectantly. Rather than try to talk him out of it, Jericho sighed and plopped the little plastic inhaler into the Lone Wanderer's hand._

 _Charles was raising the object to his lips when his Pip-boy crackled and he saw the radio signal appear._

* * *

The gates leading into the Ark and Dove swung open for him when he returned, sliding aside remarkably silently considering the nature of the gate and the compounded rust covering it. As Charles strode through, head held high despite the itching insistence for Med-x and the throbbing headache from his hallucinogenic episode that wouldn't go away, he took a quick glance around the courtyard. Row upon row of Punga fruit was planted among the limestone burial markers, interrupted only by the various graves and milling forms of tribals armed with shovels and hoes cultivating the fruit. The Cathedral itself was, despite its ruined state, even more breathtaking from within the walls than without, towering over him like a disappointed father, still exuding the quiet air of menace that first struck him.

Gripping the lever-action rifle tightly in his hands, Charles took a few steps into the courtyard. He'd only gone a little ways before the soft, soothing voice from the intercom stated, "Truly the Mother Punga has bestowed her wisdom upon you, and your mind has been expanded!" Turning his head sharply, keeping the barrel of his rifle pointed downward with a concentrated effort, Charles discovered the voice belonged to an older man with thinning white hair, face covered in garish tattoos, tribal robes hanging loosely on his scrawny frame.

Placing the rifle on his back slowly, so as not to arouse suspicion, Charles decided to play along best he could, "So? Did the ritual work?" He asked cautiously, "Am I one of you?"

The doorman smiled warmly, "Yes, my brother, you are one of us. For a time, we feared your mind had left your body forever, so strong was your reaction to her infinite wisdom. Yet here you are, alive and stronger for it! Though your body may bare the scars of your struggle, your eternal soul will be forever stronger for your trial!" The pusdo-sermon came on rather dramatically, complete with the exaggerated movement of hands so common to Confessor Cromwell back home in Megaton.

 _It seems allk cultists are all of a similar breed. Wait? Physical scarring, what the hell does that mean?_

"So? I can enter?"

"Yes! Oh yes enlightened brother," The doorman continued, "The Cathedral is open to you, as are we all. You are one of us!" He beamed ear to ear, though the smile seemed more menacing than comforting. "The material world is corrupt and tainted," he continued, lecturing the newest disciple on the nature of the faith Charles had stumbled into, "Only our minds are pure. They must be expanded, opened, freed from the material cages to seek the better world."

Figuring this would be his best opportunity to get some answers, using the guise of a pupil, Charles asked casually, "Do you have priests or leaders? Someone in charge?"

"No priest, my brother," the tribal chuckled, "But the wisest brother among us, who you could call our leader, is Jackson. His profound wisdom and knowledge has shaped all of us in our own ways, directing us towards brighter paths. Jackson has withdrawn to his Cavern of Communion at this time, to contemplate the unknown, better, world." He paused, as if sensing the next question, "No, you may not enter the nexus to speak with him. Only the enlightened are allowed knowledge of its location, and humble Jimson is not yet enlightened enough to join Jackson below. I can not and will not tell you where it is. First, you must seek enlightenment yourself."

 _Crap._

Trying to phrase his next question as cautiously as possible, so as to avoid suspicion, Charles asked, "Jimson," the doorman nodded, seeming pleased that the Lone Wanderer had picked up on the name, "When I first set foot upon the holy island, I saw an army of our people marching towards a mansion, where a bitter fight ensued. Why do we seek the destruction of this place? What is wrong with it?" Biting his tongue in panic, Charles was afraid he'd said too much and overplayed his hand. Yet Jimson didn't seem to think so and answered the question without any indication he'd noted Charles involvement in that very fight.

"Our most enlightened one divined that the fates themselves decreed this mansion must be burned to the ground." His tone was grim and serious.

Noting he wasn't likely to get much else from Jimson, Charles stated as casually as possible, "I should be moving along."

"Be well," was the only response.

Moving away from the doorkeeper and his mysterious earnestness, Charles decided to approach the cathedral proper. If someone was going to have answers he needed, they'd be inside the building. Moving up to the hand-carved oaken doors, Charles rested a hand against them both. He hadn't been inside a church since Rivet City and felt a bizarre mixture of emotion he couldn't really fathom.

Shoving the doors aside, he strode into the building, projecting a boldness he certainly didn't feel. The Cathedral had been beautiful once, but now the interior was as battered as the exterior. The windows smashed, filthy pews shoved aside, a thick layer of dirt and grime on every inch of the floor. Punga fruit grew out of the varying planters set haphazardly around, while a cooking fire burned in the center of the sanctuary floor. Several more tribals were milling about, some in a meditative stupor, others tending to the Punga growing inside the building. However, all of that faded away when he saw it. A brilliant flash of orange hair towards the rear of the church, atop a slender woman who had her back toward him.

 _Riley._

He couldn't believe it, there she was, Riley, his friend…his…whatever she may have been, on Point Lookout among these tribals. He trotted towards her at as brisk a pace as the headache would allow, "Riley?" He asked hopefully in a level of volume halfway between an excited shout and an apprehensive whisper. "Riley is that you?"

The orange-haired woman, who upon closer inspection was dressed as a tribal, shuddered suddenly, no doubt because of the shock at being addressed, spun around towards him, hand dropping to the nine millimeter on her waist. However, seeing the confused look on his face, she moved the limb away from the weapon and she gave him a sad little smile.

She wasn't Riley. This woman was younger, with a broad, slightly-upturned nose, a health olive skin-tone and slender build. The hair was dyed a bright orange, which, come to think about it, should be ringing something in the back of his mind completely unrelated to Riley. However, between the headache, lingering aftereffects of the Punga and trying to beat down the cravings he was feeling for various substances, he couldn't piece it together.

"Man, they really did a number on your head, huh new guy?" She told him simply, in a warmesq, but still cautious tone. When he didn't speak, she continued, "I'm afraid I don't know who you think I am but my name's not Riley, its Nadine."

 _Nadine._

With the name state aloud everything came back in a rush. The bottle of whiskey in his hand, already half finished as he staggered towards Tobar's ferry, the smell of the salty river air, the faint echo of bullets shooting off somewhere in the Capital Wasteland. The emptiness in his heart, Med-x coursing through his blood, cigarette hanging loosely from his teeth, leaking smoke towards the ground as he struggled, more dead than alive. There, standing on the dock, pleading frantically with him was a middle-aged woman he barely remembered, screaming and begging him to find her daughter, Nadine, who'd run off to the island in search of adventure and independence, leaving her mother a nervous wreck.

But he didn't care, his heart was broken, he shoved past the frantic woman, blowing a cloud of smoke in her face as he did. He had no time for her concerns, for her fear. She was nothing to him.

Yet that old spark of conscience wouldn't leave him be and, despite everything he did, refused to let go of the name.

"Nadine," the mother cried, tears in her eyes, "Her name is Nadine, please find her! She dyed her hair orange!"

And now, coincidence of all coincidences, here she was, a member of the tribe who'd attacked the mansion. In the place he'd come to assist a crotchety old ghoul. "Nadine?" He asked nervously, suddenly very conscious of his earlier lapse in judgment regarding Riley.

"Yes? That's what I said earlier." She noted with a hint of acidic sarcasm.

"Your mother asked me to find you, and bring you back home safely. She needed to see you again."

Ignoring what he'd just said, Nadine actually chuckled, "Here I thought you were a goner, but you've got a full sentence under your belt, long-term memory, everything. Well aren't you special."

"What the hell do you mean?" Charles asked, more curious, that anything, "Why wouldn't I? It was a hell of a trip, don't get me wrong, but aside from this headache I feel just fine."

"Oh they didn't tell you?" She asked, "Yeah, most people don't do so well with their head's cut open."

"Cut open?" He blurted out, hand flying up to his head instinctively, moving his Confederate cap aside. Sure enough, a large patch of hair had been shaved away and an ugly, poorly stitched scar seemed to have materialized on his scalp. "What happened?"

"We all get 'em when we come out of the bog. You know, the last part of the acceptance ritual?" He stared at her blankly, the Vault Dweller flabbergasted at what he'd just heard Nadine imply. "When you're lying there, passed out from the Punga? They get a guy to come in and cut open your head so as to 'free your mind,'" She inclined her head towards him and pushed back a handful of hair. Sure enough, an old surgical scar was faintly visible, though remarkably healed considering the crude nature of the incision. "And, by free your mind, they really mean rip out a hunk of your brain, the part that's suppose to hold you back, apparently. But, that don't always work out so good." She jabbed her thumb in the direction of one of the other tribals, who was standing still and gazing intently at a bit of cathedral wall, unmoving.

"A bit of my brain is gone?" He asked again, as if hoping beyond all hope that the answer would be suddenly different. It wasn't. "Well, shit."

"Yeah? I know right? What a bunch of morons," she grumbled to herself, rather more loudly than Charles would have done. However, the other tribals didn't seem to mind, each off in their own little world of mental imaginings.

 _Maybe it's just as bad as she implied._

"Look," he asked Nadine after a moment, "Since you aren't drooling yourself here maybe you can give me a hand?" She nodded agreeably, "I want to know why you guys attacked the mansion. Tell me honestly."

"Woah!" She told him, holding up her arms dramatically, "I wasn't any part of that, everything about that idiotic suicide run was all on Jackson. I went to near that place once and some old ghoul sicced his dogs on me. No thank you!"

"Jackson huh," Charles mused, pulling his cap down tighter on his skull in an attempt to cover the injury, "Maybe he's the one I should be talking to." He glanced over towards the young woman, "You don't happen to know where he is, do you?"

"He's down in his magic thinking cave," she stated grudgingly, doing air quotations with her fingers to showcase exactly what she thought about that, "Obviously, the rest of us aren't enlightened enough to join him." She snorted, "That's some bullcrap, you know? I figured joining this gang would be all drugs and magic. But it's the same crap as back home." She shook her head, "I had my frikkin' brain cut open? Doesn't that make me good enough to sit in your dumb cave?"

There was something in the tone that suggested a sly disregard for the established order, and so he probed. "Something tells me you aren't the kind of girl who doesn't let a little thing like Jackson's rules keep you from what you want." She smirked, "You know where he is, don't you, Nadine?"

"So," she said with a half-smile, "Let's say I thought Jackson's private magic cave was crap, so I followed him one night to see where he went. Let's say he went down to the shore and unlocked the cabin on a beached ship and went in, and didn't some out. Also say, just maybe, I went through his things while he was gone and found a key for that cabin, and just say, dropped it in a planter on my way out when I was done speaking with the newest member of the tribe, all hypothetically of course."

"Of course," Charles was quick to agree, before asking, "What makes you so willing, hypothetically, to give up Jackson? I'm sure the tribe won't take too kindly to such a hypothetical action."

"Screw 'em." Nadine said with far more venom than Charles expected, "I've stolen all the Punga I can carry and I'm not going to wait around for more pusdo-philosophical crap about open minds. I came to this island to make a fortune, to have a great adventure, and that's not going to happen here. Honestly," she looked Charles dead in the eye, "I wouldn't care if you burned this place down."

 _Fair enough._

"Listen, Nadine…about your mother," Charles stated, trying to bring things back to the initial point of contact, "I'm sure she missies you…"

"I miss ma too, even if she drives me crazy sometimes, I really do." Nadine shook her head, "But, when I go back, I want to have something to my name, wealth, power, something. You know? I don't want to just be me."

"Look," Charles saw the ghost of James in his mind again, looking through the glass towards him as he sank to the cold floor. "I know family can be a huge pain in the ass, believe me, I get that." He paused, remembering that horrid day, the sights, sounds, everything that slipped through his fingers and shattered. "But, hang onto what you've got, love them, never leave them, because you've got no idea when they'll have to leave you."

If his impassioned words stirred Nadine she didn't show it. The woman gave a curt, sharp nod and turned on her heel moving towards one of the nearby planters. Pausing momentarily she snatched a Punga off the vine, biting into the sweet fruit. Looking directly at Charles, Nadine dropped something shiny into the dirt, giving the Vault Dweller a wink that any astute observer would have picked up, fortunately, the tribe seemed rather light on anyone particularly observant. With that, the orange-headed runaway left the cathedral, nibbling away at the Punga and whistling all the while.

Charles waited for a few minutes after the younger woman had departed then made his way to the planter. A second of terse grubbing and the key was in hand.

 _I'll wait until after dark, and then we'll see what this Jackson has to hide._

* * *

It turns out the Vera Daring had so casually requested was a Vertibird, fully functional and painted with the same drab military olive as Tucker and Molly wore. It may have been a little cramped in the back, but there was room for the entire party, provide RL-3 powered down, which he happily did. "If God wanted me to fly he'd have built me with wings," the Mr. Gutsy had rumbled before shutdown, apparently unaware of the layers of irony to that statement.

While Riley had been initially apprehensive about taking Dogmeat aboard the flying machine and herself for that matter, she soon realized he wasn't going to be a problem. The dog lay down at Donavan's feet, panting happily, without any movement beyond occasionally raising his head to glance at the trees and buildings below. Donavan, for his part, seemed contented with alternating between petting Dogmeat and looking wide-eyed at the various surrounding compartments that kept the Vertibird running. Charon maintained his usual stoicism, sitting rigidly on one of the leather seats, shotgun held firmly in his skinless hands.

Jericho, on the other hand, wasn't doing so well.

"God damn it!" He howled, head held out the side opening into the empty space as another torrential bout of vomit exploded from the ex-raider's mouth. "Ugh!" The sight of the normally vicious killer bent out of the Vertibird's open side door puking up his Salisbury steak was oddly comical, particularly with the contrast of Daring Dashwood.

"Oh, get over yourself old man," the adventurer chuckled, standing tall with a weathered hand gripping the side, head out of the open door and a smile plastered on his face while the wind whipped at his long beard. "It's not so bad."

"I'm going to die," Jericho muttered deadpan, his face pale, eyes gaunt. There was a pause, before the ex-raider went back to puking.

"You just need your sky legs!" Daring crowed, practically dangling out of the Vertibird in an attempt to embrace the sky as best he could.

"I hate you, just so much."

"Just keep your insides inside for the next day or two and you'll be fine," Tucker commented from his position in the pilot's seat, chewing happily on an unlit cigar, "I remember my first time in the sky, it was somewhat like yours…"

"Worse," Molly grumbled, flipping a few switches from her position in the co-pilot's chair that Riley couldn't determine the purpose of but probably kept the metal deathtrap they called a ride functioning.

"Yeah, plenty worse," the Gunner sergeant chuckled happily, shaking his head side-to-side with a face lost in memory, "But now I'll take Vera up any chance I get. By the time we get to the island you'll be fine."

"Is it going to be in the next few minutes…?" Jericho grumbled, taking a handkerchief emblazoned with a skull and crossbones from one of the pouches on his leather armor, wiping away the vomit still clinging to his beard.

"Three or four days if we're lucky," Molly stated with the same grim tone the female Gunner used for any terse statement she made, glowering from behind the stars and stripes bandana.

"Well that's just friggin' peachy…"

During the admittedly humorous spectacle occurring towards the front of the Vertibird, Donavan got up from his position towards the back and subtly worked his way towards the Captain. It seems her stalwart technician had noted the general distress she'd been trying so hard to bury.

"How are you holding up, Captain?" He asked softly so as not to alert the others, while ensuring she could see he was addressing her.

Honesty was the best policy. "Not great, Donavan." She shook her head, "I just keep thinking about him, alone in that swamp…what the hell'd he go and make that dumbass decision for?"

"I don't know," the tech told her honestly, sitting next to her and offering a quick pat on the back. "But I'll tell you one thing, Charles is one tough egg and I doubt he's cracked yet. We'll find him, don't worry."

"But I do, I do worry very much," Riley shook her head, causing her orange mane to dance about, both from the physical action and the wind streaming in over Jericho's hunched form towards her. She paused and then looked at him and said something unexpected. "Did you know I slept with Butcher awhile back?"

Perhaps more surprising, was Donavan's completely unfazed response, "Yup."

"How?"

"Brick told me."

Riley shook her head, "Lady Luck take me, you guys are worse than a knitting circle." Donavan shrugged sheepishly, but didn't speak. "Anyway," she turned her gaze towards the cockpit, looking at everything and nothing. "I was lonely, he was handsome and flirty and I thought, what the hell? And you know, it was good, really good and all…but…"

"But you aren't sure about what you feel for Butcher?"

"I don't really feel anything for him, beyond comradery and friendship," Riley stated. "I'm worried that my feelings for Charles, whatever the hell they are, can be affecting my judgment. I'd go to hell and back for you or Butcher or Brick, you're my crew…"

"We'd do the same for you, Captain," Donavan answered without hesitation, rapping his knuckles against the four-leaf clover painted on his breastplate.

"But Charles isn't a Ranger," she stated, "Not really and now I've dragged you out here, for what?"

"Captain," the tech said bluntly, "It was my choice. He's important to you so he's important to me and I'll be the first to smack him for putting you through all this garbage. If that makes you feel any better, of course captain." He added hastily, clearly unsure about lines and if he'd crossed them.

Riley actually chuckled. "Depending on how he looks when I see him, I think it might."

* * *

Night fell across Point Lookout, blanketing all in a shadow of darkness and fog. The tribals, it seemed, barely noticed the shifting environment, continuing to march around the Cathedral and stare at nothing with eyes unblinking and glossy expressions unfocused. As Charles slipped through the front gate and made his way down the cliff face towards the ship wreckage Nadine referenced he noted that waiting for darkness may have been irrelevant as at least one of the tribals looked right at him and didn't seem to care.

 _I may have been luckier than I thought._

The few Mirelurks roosting in the carcass of the old boat were swiftly and silently dispatched, the crashing ocean waves effectively muffling the echo of rifle fire when shooting couldn't be avoided. After waiting a few moments to determine whether anyone was following him, Charles unlocked the cabin and went into it.

Though it some point the old sea tub had contained a captain's quarters anything within that interior had long ago rotted away or been looted. Instead, the solitary object remaining within was a crudely welded iron ladder, descending into a hole sawn through the layers of the tug.

That ladder ended in a damp cave, the darkness broken only by the flickering of torches and glowing fungus. A quick survey of the moss-encrusted, stalactite filled space quickly revealed the reason behind the dampness, far below the makeshift path he found himself standing on was an underground lake, complete with the bobbing forms of several more Mirelurks. Killing the light emitted from his Pipboy, Charles drew Wild Bill's Sidearm and carried on down the path cautiously, determined to avoid the mutant crabs for fear of alerting Jackson with the sounds of combat.

He followed the torches for time immeasurable, only the sounds of lapping water and clicking Mirelurk claws shattering the softness of the cavernous space. Despite the tension in his heart about whatever this Jackson might tell him, he found the crawl through the tunnel rather peaceful. Chewing absentmindedly on a Punga fruit cube he'd tucked away in his mouth, Charles noted the trail he'd been following had left the underground lake behind, opening into a massive cavern. The ceiling rose above him for miles uncounting, with moonlight streaming down from the cracks within the cliff. Several ancient stone sarcophagi sat undisturbed, buried beneath dust and moss, keeping the occupants sealed away from the land of the living.

However, it wasn't the natural beams of moonlight that caught his attention, or the orange flicker of torches, it was the soft, blue glow emanating from the back of the cavern. Charles had been around enough technology to know what a hologram looked like; it seemed the tribals were more advanced than he initially thought.

Suddenly, a loud, posh voice split the air, echoing about the chamber with such ferocity that Charles nearly cried out, instinctively dropping to the floor in case he'd been seen. When it was apparent he had not, he moved back up into a crouch, holding the revolver in front of him. "At last!" The voice crooned, shattering the peaceful stillness that had held the cavern in its grip, "Yes! Desmond will die and our struggle will finally end the only way it could have, with me as the victor!" That voice held a particular metallic twinge that suggested it was being projected through the holographic display.

A much softer, and more human sounding voice responded, so quietly Charles could barely make out the words, even as he crept closer towards both sets of voices, weapon still drawn and ready. "Yes, your will be done my master. Then, will you show my people the secret of astral projection? Of outer knowledge?"

 _That must be Jackson. Seems like he's got a boss too. That figures._

The tinny voice didn't like that very much. "No, you drooling moron! Not astral knowledge or whatever your tiny mind thinks this is. Psychic domination! And that won't be possible until you've destroyed Desmond's jamming device!"

Charles had reached the back of the cavern at this point, noting the pair was on top of a small rise and thus still blocked from his view. Starting to climb towards them, as softly as possible, the Lone Wanderer made his way upward, staying pressed against the wall, hoping the shadows would blend with the blue of his armored Vault suit.

 _Wish I still had my damned merc armor, that'd do the job._

"Do not worry, enlightened one." Jackson responded in a voice so soothing it almost got Charles to drop his guard. The leader of the tribals was now only a few feet ahead, kneeling in the dirt before a projection table which was currently active. The image above the tribal chief's head was still too small for Charles to make out from the distance. Jackson continued to speak, unaware of the prescience now lingering in the shadows behind, watching. "We shall re-consecrate the mansion and remove the impunities disrupting your perfect guidance."

The irritated voice responded, "Firstly, stop using those words, you have no idea what they mean and you sound like an idiot child, it's embarrassing. Secondly, do whatever you have to do to destroy that house so I can be free of you morons for good!"

"Yes, we shall be free of all limitations; we shall be the instrument of your mighty will."

"Whatever, fine." The hologram responded as Jackson rose to his feet and turned about to return to the Ark and Dove. In that moment, Jackson's eyes fell on Charles, clearly seeing the Vault Dweller in the darkness.

"Ah, welcome," he said, looking directly at the Lone Wanderer, "Please, don't be nervous. Your mind must truly be open in order to have found this place. What, may I ask, has brought you here?"

Slipping Wild Bill's sidearm away before Jackson could see his intentions were not so friendly as he thought, Charles slipped out of the darkness with his hands up and began a steady stream of bullshit this addled would-be messiah would hopefully believe, "Forgive the intrusion, enlightened one," he began, stumbling over a few words before getting his verbal feet under him, so to speak. "I came seeking the wisdom and knowledge that you are legend for among the peoples and I couldn't stay away. The vision of the Mother Punga drew me to this cave."

There was a pause, as if Jackson were trying to determine the truthfulness of the words. "A vision? That is most fortuitous!" He slapped Charles on both shoulders, a small splitting his darkly bearded face, "Be welcome here, perhaps the enlightened one would share his wisdom with you."

 _So now he's confirmed it. Good._

"But great teacher," he asked with mock surprise, "I was told you were the enlightened one?"

Jackson chuckled softly and shook his head, "Ah, were that I would be so wise." He gestured behind him towards the holotable, "He is the true wise one, a being of such infinite astral wisdom that his own form of flesh he leaves behind, yet his mind manifests on this ledge to bring forth the guidance our tribe needs to be strong. I am but a humble interpreter of his will."

"So, it was his will our tribe would attack the mansion?" Jackson nodded gravely by way of response.

"We take no pleasure in violence; our goal was simply remove the ghoul as his prescience is an offence to the master's transcendence. I cannot claim to understand the infinite complexities of why the mansion, and its occupant, does such. You'd have to speak with the master to understand fully his will."

"May I? Speak with the transcended master?" At first, Charles was afraid he'd pushed his luck with that request, but Jackson didn't seem to think so.

"By all means!" He happily stated, "You've proven yourself worthy by the act of finding this place. You go and speak to him and I'll rally the tribe!" Jackson turned and departed, happily muttering under his breath about, enlightenment and ritual and other nonsense.

Charles turned to face the projector and managed to keep the external stoicism intact with ever ounce of bluffing Jericho and numerous hands of Caravan had taught him. The being emitted from the holographic project, "staring" at him, for lack of a better word, wasn't any face at all. What he saw was a brain.

His heart skipped a beat. Internally he was stunned by the strangeness of it all, but, remembering his mission, kept his cool. The brain audibly spoke to him, intensifying the feeling of wrongness immensely. "What an idiot."

The many Robobrains he'd seen hadn't prepared him for this experience. The brain was just floating there…by itself…with nothing to support it. Still, he confirmed that the voice was that of the master Jackson spoke to earlier, so at least he'd made some progress. He could almost feel the brain sizing him up, metaphorically looking him up and down, but for what Charles couldn't tell. There was something about the brain, something so wrong, besides the obvious floating brain bit, that chilled him to the core. He almost jumped when it spoke again.

"So…you must be the rat scurrying about in the shadows. Well, you aren't much to look at but you're not drooling on yourself, so that's something I can work with. Now, perhaps you can prove much more useful than that moronic spiritualist and his tribe of crazed inbreds." Charles wanted to scream at the thing, ask him, what the hell he was, but he'd come this far, loosing a chunk of brain in the process, he wasn't about to screw up his lead with an unnecessary outburst.

"Useful?" He asked casually, trying to display a sense of calm he did not feel, "How can I be useful to you? And does this usefulness come with caps attached?"

"Ah, a businessman," the brain stated rather agreeably, "That I can work with. These idiotic tribals cannot even remove a single ghoul from a house, but I had no other option…until now."

"So, this ghoul?" Charles asked casually, trying to play everything off as a devil may care mercenary, "What's your problem with him, why do you want him dead?" Based on what he'd overheard from the previous conversation, the brain would want to rant about his plans. The Lone Wanderer was right on that end.

"More than you could possibly imagine with your squishy pink mind! But for now I only care about one item in his possession, a jammer, limiting my projection range to this pathetic cave! If you remove it I can spread my reach across the island!" He paused, and then, almost as an afterthought, "Killing Desmond would be a nice bonus, but I'm sure we can find time for that later." The ranting continued, volume increasing as the brain spoke, "Desmond! That vile sack of bile and bone will pay dearly for his trespasses! If not for his interference I'd still have a body! Though he's made my already superior intellect even more advanced by removing that physical distraction, so perhaps I owe him some thanks on that end. Thanks I'll demonstrate by giving that blasted limy a quick and messy death! HAHAHA!" The maniacal laughter that erupted from the holographic brain wasn't comforting.

"So you ordered the tribals to attack the mansion?"

"Of course! Though Jackson assumed it a moronic vision I just wanted the jamming device destroyed…Yet those sad sacks of pathetic aren't worth the flesh and bone they're made from! Worthless! Now, away with you! Destroy the device and I'll shower you with the caps you requested! Meanwhile, I have work to do!" With that the brain disappeared, the holographic projection vanishing before the Lone Wanderer's eyes.

"Well," Charles said, voice echoing throughout the empty cavern, "That's not exactly what I expected to find."

* * *

 **AN: I'm not hugely fond of this chapter, too much dialog, but the time was here to post it. Besides, these things needed to happen to move the plot forward. As you've all guessed by now, Jericho is one of my favorite characters to write, he's just a blast. Next time, Desmond reappears, and has some choice words about a certain brain. See you then!**


	12. A day at the Boardwalk

_"Charlie," the voice crackled over the radio, achingly familiar despite the passage of time since he'd last heard it. "I don't know if you're alive out there. Or, if you are, if you even care about us anymore." Amata was trying to hold her grief in check, and not doing a particularly stellar job, "If you do, please, come back to 101, we need you. I need you. My father he…" She chocked back some tears and he could see her eyes watering in his mind, "He's lost it. Charlie after you left he locked the Vault down. People are scared, they're fighting, they're dying!" There was a deadness in the air as Amata struggled with the words, "If you ever loved me, at all. Please, come back to us. I've changed the Vault's password to my name. If you loved me, you'll remember it. Please, come back. This message will repeat."_

 _The radio station, true to her last words, repeated, starting the message over again. Charles stood frozen, feeling the Jet fall from his hands and crack against the shattered concrete below. He didn't know what to do. "Amata." He said aloud, gazing down at the Pipboy's screen with wide eyes, "Amata…you want me to go back."_

 _"Are you sure about this, boss?" Charon asked, his gravelly voice thick with concern. "She was a long time ago and this could be some kind of trick. Her dad absolutely hates you, I mean really. He really hates you."_

 _"If there's even the slightest chance she needs me I have to try," he said grimly, suddenly very aware of how long he'd been away from home. "We're dropping everything, this is more important."_

 _"Really?" Jericho muttered, "Just let her go, kid. It's not worth it." The subtext was there, but the bandit wasn't afraid to say it, "What do we owe a buncha Vault dwelling pricks anyway? Nothing! We don't owe them anything!"_

 _"They're my family, Jericho," Charles growled, "And you'll watch what you say about my family."_

 _"They kicked you out! Forced you out of your own home because of something you didn't even do!" The bandit was on a roll, voice climbing higher and higher as he ranted, "Screw them! Let's go back to Megaton and forgot all about it!"_

 _"You can." The younger man said firmly, "But I won't leave them."_

 _"Fine!" The ex-raider threw his hands up in the air, "You go back into that steel deathtrap! Go in there and die! I don't care! If you manage to come crawling back I'll be home!" Without another word, Jericho left, stomping away and growling under his breath about moron idiots and fools who'd rather do good and get themselves killed over it than listen to their so-called friends._

 _"Charon?" Charles asked, almost afraid of the answer. The loss of Jericho was something he hadn't expected and it left him far more rattled than he cared to admit._

 _"I've got your back every step of the way, boss," the ghoul bodyguard said without hesitation, "Lead on, to hell or 101, I'll be with you."_

 _"Indeed, sir!" Sarge roared, spinning his buzzsaw with typical enthusiastic vigor, "Let's whip the commies up and down and send them back to where they belong! China! And hell! Same thing really if you think about it."_

 _Squaring his shoulders and cracking his neck, Charles plotted a course to Vault 101 on his Pipboy and began the slow march back towards the homestead._

 _"I'm going Amata," he whispered under his breath, "Just hold on a little longer."_

* * *

Desmond took the news better than expected.

"I knew it! I knew that stupid little bastard was behind all this bullshit! I knew it!" Had been the ghoul's first words upon hearing that some floating brain had been responsible for the mansion attack, "That bloody, blasted piece of garbage has cause me nothing but headache, but he's finally stuck his head out and now I'm going to cut it off!" He paused, looking about the weapons room for something that could fulfill that purpose, "Figuratively speaking, of course." He picked up a machete, hefting the weapon comfortably before swinging it around several times in practice, the razor-sharp edge practically singing as it moved.

"Right," Charles paused, trying to determine what any of this meant, "So, the brain? You know him right?" He took one step back as one of Desmond's rather enthusiastic practice swings split the air near the Lone Wanderer. "He said something about you stealing his body?"

"My oldest rival, parking his base of operations so close to the family home…only he would be so stupid." Spinning about sharply, Desmond hurled the machete through the air, burying the weapon snugly in a nearby wall. Charles didn't flinch, but moved closer towards the table as Desmond ushered him over.

"This place belonged to him?" The Lone Wanderer asked as the ghoul picked up an old service rifle for inspection.

"Or his family." He ejected the clip, turning it around in his hands, "Professor Calvert was the name belonging to the brain in the jar, back when he was a man. His family, the Calverts, owned half of goddamn Maryland, back when there was a Maryland to own before this whole, Great War bullshit cooked the earth like a damn egg!" Seeming satisfied with the state of the service rifle, Desmond returned in to the table, slowly working his way though a box of fragmentation grenades.

"So, important?" Charles asked, vaguely remembering Maryland as a former state in the old pre-war United States.

"You bet your smoothskin ass the Calverts were important! They practically owned the US government, among others," Desmond stated casually, testing the pins on the grenades far too enthusiastically for the Vault Dweller's taste. "Even at their lowest point there was what?" The ghoul leaned his head back, counting on his fingers, "Three Calvert senators, seven members of the house and two governors? Yeah, that sounds about right." He shook his head and growled, "Politics bullshit," under his breath. "There was almost a Calvert President too, really popular candidate, until the dog scandal forced him to drop out." The ghoul chuckled, pushing his glasses back up the crack on the face where a nose would have been under fleshier circumstances. "I did good work back in those days."

"So, you and Calvert are old rivals and you're here to get some revenge or something? Is that it?" Charles was a little unsure about getting caught up in this long-lasting feud in which both parties clearly outlived him and didn't care too much about who caught death in the process of their private war.

"I didn't expect that brain to be so goddamn stupid as to go back to his family home, but I'm glad he did." The ghoul agent gave a wolfish, predatory grin. "I came to Point Lookout on unrelated business. My oldest rival's prescience is merely a pleasant surprise." Desmond's tone took on an almost nostalgic bend, "Centuries we've played this game now. It's not about hate anymore, maybe it never was, it comes down to this, Calvert is my nemesis, he's stood in my way and I suffer no bastard who stands in my way to live."

"Fair enough, so what are you going to do next?" Charles asked, awaiting the expected bitter response. He wasn't disappointed.

"Me? Not a thing, I'm not wandering around this mudhole myself. Not when I've got an assistant of your caliber." He gave Charles a snide expression, "Even if you were initially too proud to help out."

 _Smug, pompous, self-righteous, piece of…_

Rather than give Desmond the satisfaction of any sort of response, Charles just nodded curtly, "You're absolutely correct, you've got great help. What'd you want from him?"

"Good man," Desmond nodded curtly, "You smoke?" The ghoul fished a well preserved packet of cigarettes out of his filthy suit jacket, ripping the top off the cardboard. When Charles nodded in the affirmative Desmond passed the smokes over, after taking one himself. "Did you see the Farris Wheel when you arrived?"

"You mean the giant hunk of rusted metal polluting the island landscape, towering over Pilgrims Landing?" Charles stated, tone dripping with acidic sarcasm, "Yeah, I saw it."

"No need to get pissy," Desmond grumbled, fishing a gold-plated flip lighter out of his pocket and setting the tip of his cigarette ablaze. "Calvert is using some kind of psychic projector to send his consciousness around the island, but he can only reach so far because of my jamming device. Now," he paused, rapping his skinless knuckles against a hunk of metal and wiring that barely made technical sense to Charles resting against the armament table. "If you take it and attach it to the Ferris wheel Calvert's range would be cut far shorter than that shitty cave of his." A feral grin crossed the ghoul's features, making him seem temporarily more monster than man. "With him trapped, hunting him down and squishing his disgusting little brain should be a simple enough matter. So tell me lad…" He pushed the jamming device across the battered table top, knocking aside a combat knife and Nuka Cola bottle, "Are you interested?"

"Well I was never the best at engineering," Charles shrugged, and then cracked his knuckles, "But I think I can manage."

"Now we're in business…" Desmond puffed out a cloud of smoke, "I've been waiting a long time for this, Calvert. A long goddamn time."

* * *

The interior of the cave was dark, murky, covered in sacred fungus and wild Punga that took hold wherever the vine desired. Pools of standing water rippled gently, moved by forces beyond the control of the swampfolk. The priests and wisest elders believed the spirit of Ug-Qualtoth hovered over the swamp waters, listening to the requests of his first children. That's what Big Clyde believed, as had his father, and his father before that.

Clyde may not have been the brightest of the swampfolk living on Point Lookout, but he was the biggest, meanest and strongest, and that's why they made him clan chief. Clyde was truly a massive specimen, close to eight feet tall, twisted, hairless body rippling with muscle. His clothing burst around his scab-covered frame, shirt and pants unable to maintain their integrity around his bulk, deformed and mutated like the rest of his kind. The boots split around his feet, head hung low, belt rattling with bones and scalps taken from the men and beasts that dared face him in combat. He was a warrior, a leader and more than anything, angry.

Clyde was many things, but wasn't particularly bright, however, a certain animal cunning drove him, whispered dark suggestions into his feeble brain. The current whispered idea suggested he must speak with the shaman below. Nothing frightened Clyde, not tribals or Mirelurks not even the ghost of the mines but the shaman below…if not frightened certainly unnerved him.

Yet something had to be done. A stranger had come to his island, killed his kin, first at the bridge, then at the meat shack, finally at the motel, where the attempt to burn him had ended with the death of more swampfolk. Almost a dozen of his own, dead at the hands of a man who was no tribal. Ug-Qualtoth would know what to do with this mysterious interloper and so Clyde would go down into the ritual chamber and speak with his shaman.

As the massive Swampfolk ducked his head low enough to enter the sacred space he saw the sight he always did. The alter, stained with the blood of many, sacrificial blade sunk deep into the remainder of the last piece of flesh to lay atop its cold stone form. Behind the slab, resting on the marble pedestal, carefully preserved, was the book, the guiding light to all his folk, or so the shamans had always said since the days long beyond counting when the swamp was young.

And then Clyde saw him.

Despite the flickering torches, candles and glowing fungus that blanketed the sacrificial chamber in rather decent lighting, the shaman remained shrouded in darkness. The shaman was small, hunched over like a rat, pale, scrawny hands wrapped around a twisted oaken staff from which feathers and skulls hung down, rattling as the figure shuffled around the chamber. A hooded robe of dark purple covered him from head to toe, shielding every bit of flesh aside from the hands, from view. Clyde had never seen the shaman's face, aside from the cold, lifeless blue eyes staring out from shadow covering any hint of features.

"I knew you'd come," the creature rasped out in a voice not quite swampfolk, hobbling around the altar to meet with the chief. "I saw it in the flames."

"Shaman," Clyde rumbled in his deep baritone, voice coming straight from his over-ripened belly, "Your wisdom is beyond mine." He dropped to one knee, bending his head low to the ground as a sign of respect. Not just for the little twisted being, but for the great one whom he served. "Shaman, there is an outsider, some stranger who's killing my boys, burning our crops. Some of my guys cornered him at the motel, tried to burn him out but he managed to escape into the darkness and we haven't been able to find him. Who is he? Where is he?" A pause, before the clan leader growled, "And how do we kill him?"

The shaman didn't immediately answer, scuttling back behind the altar staff tapping against the granite which composed the cave's floor, and dipping one crooked finger into the pool of remaining blood. Clyde watched with fascination as the withered, unknowable being swirled the dark liquid around, staring intently at shapes only it could see. "He is a wander…" The voice rasped out from the hood, "I sense a number, one hundred and one…" The voice from the shaman took on an almost melodic tone, as if the great god was within him, moving through him, and he was merely a puppet of Ug-Qualtoth's will.

"A wanderer…" Clyde murmured, trying to put together some idea of what that might mean. "Is he alone? Wounded?"

"Alone…yes. But not as alone he believes…" the shaman mumbled cryptically, staring intently into the dark, swirling mass of blood below him. "He is wounded, but not for much longer, soon, he will mend. Until then, beware. The wounded dog is the most dangerous."

Clyde thought about that for a moment, then nodded slowly, "I'll send the finest of our clan, armed to the teeth, but where?" He got up from his knees and stomped across the sacrificial chamber towards the mysterious being that spoke on behalf of the unknowable, "But Shaman, I need to know where to send my boys, I want this wanderer's head on a pike."

"I see a great wheel, and a small boat…"

Clyde smiled. "I know just where to send 'em…"

The hunt would be glorious.

* * *

It was a rainy day, which actually proved somewhat a small blessing as the cloud coverage hid the sun's scorching rays and the mist-like droplets did wonders for the humidity. Little bits of rain water ran down the brim of his Confederate cap, dripping across the arms of his vault suit before plummeting to the plastic cups and Styrofoam French Fry containers that coated Pilgrims Landing's rotting boardwalk. The Farris Wheel loomed above the abandoned little town, taunting Charles with a seeming knowledge of what lay so heavy in his pack.

Marcella had said nothing to him when he went to recover the duffle bag, she'd been tapping rapidly away at her terminal, gazing intently at the little green letters working their way across the screen. Everything had been where he'd left it, Theodore still guarding his stash of remaining weapons with the same stuffed expression. Wishing desperately he'd not lost his Chinese Assault rifle to the motel fire, Charles strapped his trusty sidearm and knife to his waist, carrying the lever-action rifle that had gotten him so far. With his baseball bat slung across his back he was as armed as he possibly could be.

There was a stillness lying across the little shorefront town, not even the sound of Panada's Protectron shuffling back and forth across the storefront. A quick look over at the House of Wares confirmed his suspicions; the mysterious shop keeper was gone.

 _I wonder if she knows about something I don't._

Perhaps, most interestingly of all, was the continued prescience of the _Duchess Gambit_. It seems that Tobar hadn't left the island for some strange reason.

That reason suddenly became apparent and far stranger than expected as Charles drew close to the tug. On the deck, forced to his knees with hands bound, was Tobar. Standing triumphantly behind him, holding the hunting revolver, once strapped to his chest, to the back of his head, was Nadine.

Not wanting to shatter the aura of hushed silence that held Pilgrims Landing in a velvet grip, Charles shuffled over towards the boat, "What the hell's this?" He hissed at Nadine, gesturing towards the pistol unwavering in the woman's tense grip. "This is our ride home!"

"Not exactly," the tomboy muttered slyly, "This here son of a bitch is the one who's been slicing our brains up." Tobar tried to maintain the cavalier expression on his sweaty features, but the twitching of his mustached lip seemed to suggest a layer of truth to Nadine's claims.

"Really?" The Lone Wanderer knelt before the ferryman, tilting his head to the side like a predatory owl. "Is there any ring of truth to that, Tobar? Old buddy, old chum?"

"Of course not!" Tobar was shaking his head violently, enough to dislodge the goggled hat atop his head, "Nothing of the sort! I'm always honest! And honestly? No truth to it! None at all!"

"I can prove it," Nadine's tone still held a jovial, sing-song tone, but with a harsh edge suggesting she wasn't really in the mood for games. "Inside his cabin, locked one? Well, not any more," she gestured towards the appropriate door with her head, sending her flaming orange hair flashing about as she did. "Fair warning," she hesitated, visibly unnerved by her experiences, "You aren't going to like what you find…"

Swallowing hard, Charles walked onto the tug, past the kneeling form of Tobar the ferryman and tried the door handle leading into the cabin. Finding the portal unlocked he took a quick look inside. What he saw was, as Nadine had described, quite horrifying. Massive shelves took up the entire space, and crammed onto those shelves was numerous small glass jars, each containing a little slice of brain, no bigger than a pre-war orange wedge.

Most horrifying of all, sitting on the table in the center of the room, still curing, for lack of a better word, was a fresh slice of brain. His instinct screamed at him to ignore the obvious conclusion, that wasn't his brain, couldn't be. Unfortunately, there was a strip of tape slapped across the jar, upon which crudely jotted down in pen were the words, "Vault Dweller."

"Oh damn," was all he managed to mutter while staring at the little curing hunk of grey flesh, pickling in the glass before him. Stepping away from the room and closing the door behind him, as if that would hide the horrid reality, he turned to face the tomboy and ferryman. "You weren't kidding."

"Grisly ain't it?" Nadine stated with mock cheeriness, pulling back the hammer on the hunting revolver with a resounding click. "So, time's up for Tobar I guess."

"Please! I didn't know anything about this! I swear…" The ferryman began muttering, his walrus mustache trembling over a quivering lip. When it became painfully obvious that neither party was buying this line of begging, Tobar changed his tone, "I had to do it! They'd kill me otherwise! And you know I'm a huge coward! Absolutely! The most cowardly man in the Capital Wasteland! But on the inside I was rooting for you! I was hoping you'd kill these goddamn tribals!"

"Shut up." Charles growled dangerously, scowling down at the greasy looking pile of sleazy lies who owned the boat the Lone Wanderer was starting to have serious second thoughts about climbing aboard. "I need to think." He looked at the orange-haired woman with the gun and stated, "I have something I need to do at Pilgrim's Point, and it'll take a few minutes. When I'm done that, we'll decide what we do with him."

"How about I shoot him and steal his stupid boat?" Nadine asked in tone far too calm for Charles' liking. A few days ago he'd have shrugged and said "sure," but his old self was coming back and the thought of putting a bullet through Tobar's head, no matter how richly deserved, didn't sit right with him.

"Just wait until I get back, okay?" He murmured exasperatedly, fishing around in his duffle for Desmond's jammer. Pulling the crudely manufactured device out of the pack with accompanying grunts of annoyance, Charles removed himself from the _Duchess Gambit_ and made his way back onto the boardwalk.

Damp planks groaned beneath each labored step from the Lone Wanderer, casually making his way towards the rotting carcass of the old Farris Wheel. The wind had begun to pick up, whistling low through the holes in the varying buildings. The noise was such that he almost missed the whisper in the back of his brain. "What in God's name are you doing?" The voice was distinctively real, distinctively British and absolutely not his.

"Calvert?" He asked the air around him, glancing about wildly for the brain in the jar that was the old professor. Not surprising, there was nothing.

"I'm in your brain, primate." The posh voice sneered rather arrogantly throughout his mind, undoubtedly real this time. "Remember? Psychic powers? That's my forte. Now listen here," Charles continued to move towards the Farris Wheel even as Calvert blathered on incessantly, "You've not killed Desmond yet, I can tell, so, that's disappointing, but this can still work to our advantage. You destroy the jammer and I'll act like my powers are weakening, that'll be the trap! Desmond's so blasted arrogant he'll fall for it!"

Charles made his way over to the wheel, without paying any head to the disembodied brain. Perhaps Calvert somehow sensed that decision and began screaming, "You bumbling moron! You slobbering idiot! I'll have my Tribals rend you asunder if you do this!" Charles, for his part, found a metal bar on the wheel that seemed sturdy enough, attaching the Jamming Device to it with a few bits of duct tape. Once he felt confident enough that the mechanical device wasn't going to tear away, the Lone Wanderer flipped the on switch, listening to the gentle humming of the jammer.

"Stop it! Cease and desist! I'm warning you!" The threats persisted, even as the Vault Dweller reached the Farris Wheel's control panel. Blowing on the ancient switch loosened a veritable storm of dust, but with the cobwebs and dirt cleared away operating the carnival ride proved easy enough. A loud screeching of metal on metal echoed through Pilgrims Landing as the big wheel began to turn. Calvert screamed, more shriek than bellow, before finally fading away as the wheel reached its summit.

Finally hearing his own thoughts again, Charles breathed out a sigh of relief, rubbing his forehead with the back of a suddenly very sweaty hand. He moved back towards the boat, swaying a little from the mental strain of baring another being's thoughts.

Nadine and Tobar both looked bewildered by his mysterious actions, the tomboy going so far as to actually scratch her head. "What the bloody hell was that all about?" She shouted across the boardwalk, with a mock British accent that was closer to Desmond than the ghoul would ever admit.

"Some unfinished business, nothing more," he growled, massaging his forehead with both thumbs. The aftereffects of Calvert's mental intrusion were still hammering away at his skull, leading to teary eyes and throbbing veins. What he really needed was a spot of bedrest and a mug of warm tea. Unfortunately, he wasn't about to get either.

"That's him!" The high pitched, remarkably shrill voice of Jimson, the tribal gatekeeper, echoed throughout the whole of Pilgrims Landing. "That's the defiler of the Master's will!" Nadine nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of his bellow, and Charles wasn't much better off, snatching the lever-action rifle from its new place on his back and spinning towards the sound. Jimson had entered the rickety boardwalk, face painted with some garish blue woad, double-barrel shotgun clutched tightly in his sweaty fingers. He was far from alone, as numerous other tribals, all armed, filled in behind him, hissing and snarling, a very different picture from the peaceful, tranquil lot he'd encountered back at the Ark and Dove. This group seemed more than capable of attacking a mansion, and of tearing him apart.

Nadine actually took the hunting revolver's barrel off of Tobar's profusely sweating brow and aimed it towards the mob, her hands were shaking like a windy leaf. Charles took a step towards the angry band, holding the rifle before him in as passive a gesture he could without putting the weapon down. "Listen to me very carefully," he said slowly, "You are being lied to, manipulated. Your master is no god, just a bitter old man with nothing but hatred for you! Let me through, let me free you from his clutches."

Nadine was nodding her head furiously. "The outsider speaks true! I uh…saw the light?" Her words were far from convincing and everyone knew it.

"YOU!" Jimson bellowed, jabbing his scrawny finger towards the much younger man, "Are a false prophet! A liar! You will lead us into the dark place!" His dry lips were caked in saliva, spittle flying forward with each bellowing roar, "You stole the truth from the Mother Punga! But we will rend it from your corpse!"

Jimson looked like he was about to order an all out attack on the Lone Wanderer, when the second, large, angry mob arrived, hollering, whooping and screaming with enough force to drive anyone not involved in the altercation away. Unlike the tribals however, there was no mistaking the intentions of this group.

The swampfolk were armed to the teeth, plentiful, and lead by the biggest looking thing Charles had every seen. "That's the blue one Clyde mentioned!" The leader bellowed, jabbing a lumpy, tumor covered finger towards him, "Rip him to shreds!"

Everything happened at once.

Charles flung himself to the boardwalk, bashing his face against the soggy wood, scattering ancient Styrofoam in every direction. Gunfire erupted from both parties of angry locals, punching holes in the ancient buildings of Pilgrims Landing, devastating the remaining flora and inflicting casualties among the two groups. Pandemonium reigned, as tribals and swampfolk redirected fire towards each other, even as some moved towards Charles, determined to finish what they'd come to do. Nadine squealed, as did Tobar, while bullets ripped into the _Duchess Gambit_ narrowly missing both.

Charles rolled to his feet as the battle continued around him, swampfolk and tribals engaging each other in bloody melee combat. Down the boardwalk, only a few meters away from him, a tribal armed with a spear was cut neatly in half along the waist by an axe-wielding swampfolk of the larger variety. The massive being turned a blood-splattered face away from the bisected corpse and glared straight hatred across the boardwalk towards the Lone Wanderer. Charles didn't hesitate. Aiming the rifle in his hands and firing as fast as the hammer would allow, the Vault Dweller didn't stop until the big creature was lying in a pool of blood.

Reloading the rifle as quickly as he could, Charles slid aside, trying to avoid all the attention. A tribal carrying a sawed-off shotgun rushed towards him, breaking away from the main brawl to end the Lone Wanderer. The Vault Dweller took aim and fired a solitary round, putting a bullet clean through the attacker's neck. As the tribal collapsed gargling, Charles snatched up the sawed-off and slipped it onto his belt, no knowing when the weapon might come in handy. Glancing about, instinct alone saved him from the frag grenade lobbed by some party. The damp boards and shrapnel dropped several fighters on both sides, and earned him the burning sensation of a razor shard of burning metal slashing him across the cheek. He stumbled and fell, pressing his hand against his rapidly spilling blood, hot down his face and vault suit, rifle flying away from his hands.

Nadine began firing her revolver into the crowd, miraculously hitting no one despite emptying the entire chamber in the weapon. The return fire on the tug proved no more accurate, the two bands almost more focused on each other at this point.

His head was ringing, face burning from a shrapnel wound far worse than he'd initially realized. Smoke and screams filled the air, and in the insanity he almost missed it. Rushing towards him through the fog of war was a tribal warrior, armed with a sharpened shovel, screaming for his death. Charles rolled aside, watching the razor edged utensil splinter the wood where his head had only just been.

Rising up and drawing the bat from his back as he did, Charles swung high, smashing the solid oak across his attacker's face. The tribal staggered backward from the force of the blow, allowing Charles to land a second. Putting all the power of his Vault baseball playing days behind the blow, the Lone Wanderer smashed the bat into the man's face a second time. Nose shattering in a spray of blood, the tribal fell and didn't rise again.

Realizing his odds of surviving this insane scuffle were better aboard the _Duchess Gambit_ , Charles returned his bat to his back, scrambling towards his rifle. A smaller swampfolk seemed determined to halt that progress, charging him with a sledgehammer.

Well-trained hands managed to grab the lever-action weapon, and few rapidly fired rounds sent the hammer-barer into the ground. As soon as the body stopped twitching Charles opened fire towards the next nearest swampfolk, a scrawny, slack jawed thing carrying a BB rifle, dropping the spindly creature next to the first. Reloading as he moved, Charles ducked his head and ran for the tug. A tribal with a nail-studded board tried to block his way, but Charles slammed the butt end of his rifle into the man's face, knocking him to the ground in a spray of blood.

Nadine was reloading the revolver when Tobar made his move. With lightning speed and viper-like precision, the ferryman smashed his head upward into Nadine's face. The woman staggered backward, bleeding and swearing, as Tobar began sprinting towards the nearest patch of tribals, hands still bound in cuffs. "Help me!" He shrieked, dashing over to Jimson, who was miraculously still alive despite the pile of dead tribals all around him. Charles fired a pair of bullets after the fleeing ferryman without effect.

One of the other tribals returned fire, hunting rifle snapping off a round that whizzed right past Charles, punching a hole clean through the upper railing of the tug. With enthusiasm, Charles fired back, hitting the tribal in the left side of the face, force of the bullet slamming the inbred into the ground. Jimson bellowed angrily, firing his double-barrel towards the Lone Wanderer, but hitting nothing. All around him, the tribals were being cut to shreds, with the swampfolk failing to do much better.

Realizing survival was the better part of valor, particularly with the Lone Wanderer putting another tribal in the ground with a well aimed shot from his lever-action rifle, Jimson whistled loudly, "Retreat! All of you! Fall back to the monastery!" He fired again, missing a scrambling Tobar by a narrow margin, before slowly backing away. Around him, the surviving tribals were in similar states, either running from the remaining swampfolk, lying dead on the ground, or doing their best to help fellow wounded.

For their part, the swampfolk seemed confused, disoriented. The massive brute leading the band seemed to have vanished, and the few stragglers were wounded and confused. One survivor, dressed head to toe in plaid, rushed Charles and the tug, trying desperately to light the stick of dynamite clutched in his oversized, mutant hand. Without hesitation, Charles put a bullet through the slouching forehead above the would-be bomber, dropping him like a moldy sack of deformed potatoes.

Spirits finally broken by yet another death, the remaining swampfolk scattered, darting off into the swamp in different directions. A gentle stillness fell over Pilgrims Landing, broken only by the surf crashing against the dock and the soft humming emitted by the jamming device from its perch high up on the Farris Wheel.

Charles turned to face a bloodied Nadine and stated with as much frivolity as he could muster, "That didn't exactly turn out how I planned it."

* * *

 **AN: I wanted that threeway brawl for some time and was glad to finally bring it out. Also, a glance at the swampfolk leader? What does it mean? I'm sure we'll find out. :)Plus, Tobar, slinking off into the swamp, that'll certainly cause no problems I'm sure. Thank you all for the continued support.**


	13. Gray Matter

"You're lucky, nothing's broken," Charles told Nadine while gently applying the gauze he found in his duffle bag to her still bleeding nose. The calmness of the moment provided stark contrast to the battle that had occurred in that area less than an hour earlier, bodies laying where they fell, any wounded either having finally died or managing to crawl away. The _Duchess Gambit_ , where the victorious pair sat, was remarkably undamaged considering the firefight. All the damage the tug had sustained was above sea level and thus didn't affect the integrity of the boat.

"Why don't I feel lucky then?" Nadine grimaced, wincing and hissing in pain as Charles applied the gauze. She shook her head, "I can't believe Tobar slipped away… I'm such an idiot."

"Hey, don't blame yourself," Charles told her gently, fishing around in his pouch for the bottle of whiskey he knew was still inside. "For your first gunfight you did okay, I mean, you survived, which is more than a passing grade." He shook his own head, taking a pull from the bottle before passing it to the tomboy. "I cried all the way through mine." He tried to give the words the flavor of humor, but the pained memories of his first time fleeing 101 proved overpowering, giving the words the sad reflection he felt in his heart.

Taking the offered bottle, Nadine drank gratefully leaving a notable dint in the remaining whiskey. "Where'd you get that?" She asked, passing the dirty glass object back to her fellow survivor, shaking her head with another pained expression as the flavorful alcohol impacted her damaged nostrils.

"Some swampfolk had it on him. Found it while I was checking the boardwalk for survivors." He shrugged, taking another drink. "I figured we could find more use for it than he could."

"Fair enough." Nadine gave an awkward pause, clearly trying to build up the courage to approach a subject she found difficult. "So, listen…while you were out looking for supplies and checking the bodies I poked around the tug."

"And?" The Vault Dweller asked expectantly, waiting for the obvious bad news that was clearly incoming.

"And we've got a problem." She looked up towards the ship's wheel, cringing as she did. "We've got the boat, but it's useless without a key. The whole engine's locked up, so until we get that key we can't get off the island. And I'm assuming the longer we stay here the less likely we're going to make it off at all, now that two large angry groups are pissed at us."

"I'm assuming you didn't find that key anywhere onboard?" It was a shallow, near pointless hope, but all the same he had to try. When she shook her head mournfully he filled in the remaining steps, logically, "So, let's assume Tobar has it, wherever the hell he's gotten off too."

"Makes sense."  
"He's going to be keeping it on him at all times," Charles mused, rubbing the bottom of his chin thoughtfully, "Because I'm assuming after this debacle he's going to be keen to leave the island himself. I doubt old Jimson is going to want to continue their relationship with so many tribals dead due to the two of us, indirectly Tobar's fault."

"I don't know," Nadine butted it, "The tribals are pretty reliant on supplies from the outside, though trust me, Jimson would never admit it. Tobar's pretty important with him bringing stuff in from the Capital Wasteland, and it's unlikely they're going to find a new trading partner on short notice. That'll buy Tobar some time."

"Same as before, he'll have the key on him, without the tug he's useless." Charles paused, putting every ounce of brainpower into figuring the tactical angle. "He'll be protected among the tribals, until he can find a way to reclaim the boat. But they won't hold him at the Ark and Dove, too obvious. I know where it is and we've got to assume the number of surviving tribals is a hell of a lot lower between the failed attack on the mansion and the battle on the boardwalk. They can't afford another battle like this one."

"What if he comes back here?" Nadine asked nervously, patting the hunting revolver at her waist for comfort, "Which he might, he might even bring backup."

"He won't get that chance." Charles took the lever-action rifle from its place on his back and began loading the weapon, making a mental tally of his remaining ammunition. He'd managed to scavenge a few additional rounds from the bodies but he really didn't have the bullets to wage a war. Fortunately, he wouldn't have to. "I have a contact, the fellow I actually put that hunk of tape and wire on the Farris Wheel for," he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder back towards the jamming device with an almost cavalier attitude. "He's got plenty of information, I figure, about every inch of this bloody island, and the firepower to do something about it. I'll track down Tobar, get our key back, and then we're getting the hell out of here." He glanced over at the orange-haired lass, "In the meantime, you stay with the boat. If anyone tries to take it…"

She pulled the hammer back on the revolver with a satisfying click, "I know. Just don't take too long…Okay?" She tried to keep the nervousness out of her voice, but unfortunately it still leaked through.

Charles nodded, "I'll be back in a flash."

 _Once I help Desmond out with Calvert, that is. But I think I've spent enough time on Point Lookout. I'm ready to go home._

* * *

 _"I thought you loved me!" He screamed, voice rattling about the steel walls and doors, echoing throughout the entirety of the Vault. "This is my home! I need it!"_

* * *

The short jaunt from Pilgrims Landing to the Calvert mansion was a quiet one, with even the bloatflies having fled from the scene of the recent battle. For Charles, who'd come to grips with who he was, but didn't want to think too much about it, the silence was distressing. He'd lost his old harmonica back in the motel fire, and his throat was too sore to carry a tune, so he spent his time chewing a hunk of salted Mirelurk jerky and trying to focus on the impressive task ahead, convincing Desmond to help him. Something told the Lone Wanderer the ghoul wasn't exactly in the business of giving back, even considering what Charles had done to help him and, as such, was trying to formulate the most effective argument he could think of.

When every concept he considered sounded utterly ridicules, even to him, the Vault Dweller decided he'd rather wing it.

The Calvert mansion loomed over the wilderness, its massive, Victorian-era architecture and dilapidated white plank front proving just as somber as it had been during his first viewing. However, unlike that first glance, one of nervousness, apprehension and worry, this viewing was more cheerful. An ally dwelt within, with weapons, supplies and information. He'd put Calvert down, then find Tobar, shake that key out of the pudgy man's grasp and get off of Point Lookout. DC needed him, Riley needed him.

 _Riley…I have so much I have to explain, to apologize for…_

Some instinct suggested in the back of his mind that he pause at the twisted, black iron fence that ringed the ancient mansion, just for a moment. He'd long ago learned to trust that instinct, pausing momentarily long enough to scan the grounds. Nothing out of the ordinary appeared.

He took a step forward and the mansion exploded.

The building shattered outward in an ear-splitting boom, flames rolling like an angry cloud. The force of the explosion threw Charles to the ground, driving the air from his lungs and bruising ribs. Hunks of stone, wood and metal rained down around his prone body. Miraculously he was unharmed by the falling debris.

After silence fell over the area, Charles shoved himself to his feet, snatching his fallen cap off the ground and jamming it onto his head. The space where the Calvert mansion had once stood was nothing more than a smoldering, flaming ruin. "DESMOND!" Charles screamed, rushing towards the rubble, rifle in hand, stepping around bits of concrete and wood. The dry grass had caught fire in several places, adding their own small plumes of dark smoke to the much larger one building above the mansion.

Up close the devastation was even more intense. The greenhouse had collapsed beneath the impact of the explosion's shockwave, reduced to a lumpy pile of twisted metal, shattered glass and flaming embers. The half shattered face of a marble statue lay submerged in the grass, gazing pathetically upward at nothing. What remained of the image was crushed beneath a panicked boot as, beyond all logical hope and sanity, Charles went blundering towards the mansion, needing desperately to pull one crotchety old ghoul out of the ruins, a task most likely impossible on account of the massive explosion.

"DESMOND!" He cried out again, feeling the scratchiness of a throat dry from battle and shouting, panic continuing to run rampant along his body. The ruins of the house were unspeakably horrifying, the carnage carrying such a distinct sensation of finality it was almost physical. The only portion of the mansion remaining in any semblance of togetherness was the concrete foundation, cracked and burned nearly beyond recognition, but still functionally intact. Atop the concrete square was a metal hatchway, leading downward into what Charles assumed was a sewer drain.

It turned out, that Charles was wrong on two accounts.

The hatch door flew open, an echoing cough erupting outward along with a wave of dust and rubble. Crawling up the rickety ladder separating the now visible panic room from the remainder of the Calvert Mansion, grey suit covered in soot and blood, was Desmond Lockheart. He was visibly shaken, mess of black hair matted and tangled, as fleshless hands drove him up the ladder.

"He killed my dogs!" The ghoul cried out, his tone laced with what Charles believed was genuine anguish. "That son of a whore, bitch-dog, puss-filled, pissbag, spawn of a rotting Brahmin turd, killed my dogs!" Desmond was shaking, hands clenched into fists that seemed more than ready to squash a brain between them.

"Who did? What the hell just happened here?" Charles was utterly baffled, kicking over the remains of a dining room table that had been launched in the explosion.

"Calvert, of course!" Desmond screamed rummaging about in his suit pocket for the packet of cigarettes Charles had seen him use before. "That smug little grey blob of nothing! He must have sensed your actions at the wheel because he utilized every last little bit of psychic energy stewing in that crackpot mind of his. He hijacked one of those disgusting tribals and sent the bugger into my home to activate my failsafe." He paused, finally managing to locate his cigarettes and light one, the pungent scent of tobacco reaching the younger man's nostrils. "My poor pups didn't make it…"

"So we're back to step one then?" Charles felt the sensation of hopelessness overwhelm his mind and voice. He didn't feel the need to ask after Tobar, if Desmond had known anything about the ferryman's location it would have been lost, along with all his equipment for utilizing it, in the mansion explosion. Even if it hadn't, the ghoul wasn't likely to be in the mood for a personal side quest.

"Not quite." The elder ghoul snarled, spitting bile and smoke as he did, "That idiot Calvert made one fatal mistake." He gestured toward Charles, pointing the glowing end of the cigarette at him like a laser pointer, "You rattled him, which was bloody well done by the way…"

 _Was that a compliment? From the grumpy limey? Will the wonders ever cease?_

Charles inclined his head, acknowledging the comment. "He was so desperate," Desmond battered on, rolling on by the compliment without giving it a second thought, "That he expanded all his energy into the action, and that left a goddamn trail my scanners were able to find before the whole goddamn mansion went up in flames." Desmond gritted his teeth with such ferocity he snapped the cigarette in half. Watching the burning embers fall to the ground without much thought or care, Desmond simply lit up another. "The point of all this being, I finally know where that puss-filled, mistake of God is hiding."

"That's good news," Charles said hesitantly, not entirely sure whether he was going to like whatever came next.

"You're goddamn right it is!" The old ghoul howled as he spat the vengeful words across the room with the force of bullets. "He's set up in the old lighthouse, right under our bloody noses. We'll head over there and squash that insect beneath our boot heels, and burn the whole damn lighthouse down for good measure while we're at it." The feral grin returned, spreading across the British ghoul's face with horrifying swiftness. "Ah Calvert," he breathed out, words accompanied by a cloud of tobacco smoke, "I'll almost miss you when you're gone, you goddamn grease stain."

"That sounds like fun," Charles managed to say, keeping his tone remarkably neutral about the whole thing. It certainly would be nice to get one of the megalomaniacs who'd been so determined to drag him into this little war out of the picture. Plus, he might be able to reason with the remaining tribals after Calvert's death, an added bonus, one less group of murderous inbreds after his head.

"The best kind." Desmond's words held the cold chill of a man speaking from experience, and unafraid of letting anyone know. "Head down into my bunker and take whatever you need, food, explosives, medical supplies, ammunition, then meet me here. We're taking that lighthouse by storm."

* * *

 _"What?"_

 _Charles was stunned; he was absolutely floored by what he'd just heard. He couldn't believe it, she couldn't be serious? Could she? Could she really? He had to know and so voiced the syllable aloud again, "What?"_

 _Amata gazed across the room at him, hazel eyes watering, arms folded across her chest in a stance oddly befitting her new role as overseer of vault 101. She spoke again, "Please, Charlie, don't make this any harder than it needs to be."_

 _He'd come back from the wasteland, he'd ended the bloody civil war ripping Vault 101 apart with no further casualties and he'd secured a future for their community, for his home, for the woman who he loved, who was staring right at him unblinkingly rigid, so why didn't he feel like a hero?. "Make this any harder than it needs to be?" He got the words out, tone torn between bitter sarcasm and an actual agonizing pain. "Are you really going to stand there and talk to me about making things harder than they need to be? Because that'd be just rich."_

 _They were standing in Amata's new office, all her father's things left exactly where Charles remember, visible in the atrium beneath them was the bustle of a vault trying to right itself and prepare for the world outside. "We need some privacy," she'd told him and the young man couldn't have agreed more. What he expected was a drink and the rekindling of their relationship. It'd take time, sure, he was a very different man than the one who'd walked out of those doors months ago, but he believed in them, he had to. They could make it work, given it time. Maybe he'd even take up the role of chaplain, now that Father Daniel had passed._

 _What he'd found upon entering the overseer's office was a fresh vault suit, neatly folded, and nothing else he'd expected. Then Amata closed the door and everything he fought so hard to reclaim fell from his hands. "You need to leave Charlie…leave and never come back…"_

 _And so the exchange had begun._

 _"You think I want to send you away?" Amata screamed trying to stand straight enough to match Charles' impressive height without effect. "You think I want to rip my own heart out?"  
"Don't you dare speak about your feelings for me, don't you dare," he stomped across the room closer to her, jabbing her in the chest with his index finger to emphasize every word, "You can't stand there and act like this is hard for you, and then banish me! Don't you dare! I gave you everything back!" He glanced down at his hands, seeing blood that wasn't there, "I've killed to come back here! I've been through hell and back out there, dreaming, every night that I'd come home, to you. And when I finally make it back you use me up and throw me out like an unwanted cigarette!"_

 _"I do love you!" She shoved him back, continuing to match his voice with her own, unafraid or uncaring if anyone overheard, "But I'm overseer now and I have a responsibility! I have to keep this vault in one piece and with you here I can't do that!"_

 _"Why the hell not? You're the overseer and your word is law!"  
"You know damn well why I can't! Your father started this whole mess! Half of the survivors blame you two for everything! As long as you're here there's no way we're going to have peace, no matter what laws or rules I put in place. 101 will tear itself apart until there's none one left. You're a hero…but you can't stay here." She patted the fresh vault suit, "So please take this and go." _

_"I thought you loved me!" He screamed, voice rattling about the steel walls and doors, echoing throughout the entirety of the Vault. "This is my home! I need it!" There must have been something in his eyes, because Amata actually took a step backward, shrinking away from the man she'd once called lover. "Give me names," he told her, deadly serious, "Tell me who it is, and I'll talk to them." The words tumbled out of his mouth in a rapid-fire order, hands twitching for the knife on his belt._

 _"You'll kill them?" Amata whispered, looking up at him with an expression that broke Charles. Fear. His beloved Amata was afraid of him. How had it come to this?_

 _"Is that what you think of me?" He responded, tone neutral, voice hoarse, itching for the Chinese assault rifle on his back. Maybe talking wasn't enough, maybe if that's what she thought…._

 _"I don't know Charlie…" She sounded so hurt, so terrified, that the violent impulses running through his veins faded away and the Lone Wanderer relaxed his stance. "I just need you to go. We can never repay you for what you've done for us, and we don't deserve it, believe me. But you can't stay. Please, I'm asking you as your girlfriend…please. Please leave us."_

 _Charles stood still, gazing across the room at the woman who seemed so much smaller than she had all those years ago, had she shrunk or had he grown? What was he now? Man? Or Monster?_

 _The two stood in silence, emotions and words utterly spent. Charles took a step towards her, then another, then another. Finally he could contain his emotions no more and dashed across the room, taking Amata up in his arms. Their lips crashed together in a savage assault that was equal parts affection and attack. He lifted her as she wrapped her legs around his waist, the pair kissing passionately. He put every feeling he ever had for Amata into that kiss, every emotion he'd never again feel, every action, every inaction, every waking moment of the future that was now gone forever._

 _Then he let her go._

 _Putting the woman down gently, he kissed her forehead, took up the new vault suit and left. He left her office, he left the vault and he left his old life behind. The young man who'd first walked out of that vault had been terrified, but full of life and hope. The man who left it now felt old, weary, his shoulders sagged, his heart was empty. He had nothing left, he was nothing…_

 _And that's when he heard the radio advertisement for a faraway island called Point Lookout…_

* * *

Calvert had hidden his secret lair well. It had taken the British ghoul and Lone Wanderer almost ten minutes of searching the lighthouse to find the trap door and another two to get it open. The well hidden hunk of plank and iron opened up to reveal a military-grade listening complex, full of long steel corridors, storage rooms and massive computers. Robobrains, turrets and Protectrons filled most of it, slowing the pair dramatically as they worked their way towards Calvert.

Charles was oddly satisfied the whole time, lever-action rifle and sawed-off shotgun punching holes in the metal beings standing between him and the foe. It felt good to be doing something useful for a change, something that might have a real impact on the island. It reminded him of the earlier days.

The final Robobrain exploded in a burst of burnt wire and circuitry, metallic corpse falling aside, limbs flailing limply as it failed to guard the massive steel double doors, behind which Charles had a pretty good guess what was hiding. Turning to face the ghoul, reloading his sawed-off as he did so, the Vault Dweller said cordially while gesturing towards the door, "Desmond, would you care to do the honors?"

"I'd bloody love to." Desmond punched the nearby control panel, watching intently as the doors slid away, hinges screaming in protest as rust ground against rust. Clearly, the door didn't see much use.

The room on the opposite side of those doors was vast. Several metallic walkways led from the doors to a massive glass tube in the center of the room. Beneath those walkways was a massive collection of computers and hard drives buzzing and chirping creating a constant low hum that blanketed the entire chamber. The room was ringed by stone archways, meticulously hand carved while several framed paintings took up wall space not occupied by additional computer monitors, from which streams of nearly unreadable code scrolled by faster than his eyes could follow. The flickering light bulbs in the ceiling did little to illuminate the entirety of the space, but fortunately the large glass chamber in the room's center glowed so brightly there was little difficulty seeing. Wiring of various sizes and colors ran out from the both the base and top of the massive container, some plugged into terminals and generators Charles could see and others vanishing into the dark cervices of the walls or the massive bank of machines below.

Floating inside the tube, within some unknown liquid, was a solitary brain; a brain Charles assumed was Calvert. Desmond took a slow step forward, sniper rifle in his hands. "Well, well, well," he said slowly, methodically, "Calvert, my old adversary. You're looking well, all things considering…"

Calvert was not amused. "Desmond." The brain spat, his words coming out of a decent sized speaker attached to the containment tube he was resting in. "I see your lackey managed to lead you here. You always did like expendables doing your work for you."

The ghoul snorted. "You'd have liked that, wouldn't you Calvert? For my final victory to be owed to someone else?" He clicked his tongue against yellow teeth, stepping forward even more, finely made shoes clicking metallically against the walkways.

 _Well, it kinda is._

"This victory is mine Calvert, you goddamn simpleton." The chuckle echoed off the chamber walls, bouncing around metallic walkways and hallways. "You proved so shit at killing me that you actually led me right to you. You know that? I tracked you here." Desmond cocked the sniper rifle, the sound impossibly loud in the silence of the chamber, 50. casing falling from the weapon, clinging against the walkway and falling into the computer banks below, audible the entire way down. "Checkmate, Calvert." The ghoul aimed his weapon at the pod keeping the brain alive, "I win."

The brain didn't seem distressed, quite the opposite. It actually laughed. "Desmond, do you think I'd be so stupid to let you find me without a trick up my sleeve? Professor Calvert is never surprised!" Desmond gave the brain a quizzical look before suddenly screaming in agony, dropping his weapon and falling to his knees. The glasses fell from his face and cracked, blood oozing from his nose and ears as he clutched his head in his hands, continuing to scream.

It happened so fast.

"Desmond!" Charles yelled, dashing towards the fallen Brit with his sawed-off aimed for the floating brain. "What the hell's wrong? Talk to me!"

"What's wrong?" Calvert lorded, gloating smugly behind the glass, "I happened of course!" The ghoul moaned in pain, hands gripping his head tightly as he spasmed on the ground. "I'm hitting him with concentrated psychic energy! He'll be dead in mere minutes as his brain boils from the inside, his fears and failures the final things he sees!" Calvert laughed manically, the robotic chuckle managing to actually momentarily drown out Desmond's screams. "The absolute gall! Coming against a mental warrior of my magnitude in such close range with a gun! To think, my greatest foe actually thought a gun would be enough to end Professor Calvert!"

Even as Charles took aim with his sawed-off, the brain directed his attention towards him. "Don't think I've forgotten you either!" Calvert shouted as a wave of overwhelming anguish struck Charles with the force of a Super Sledge. The Vault Dweller staggered backward, feeling the rush of pain in his mind, eyes burning, blood dripping from his nose. Only instinct kept the sawed-off in his hands as he fell to his knees.

The pain was overwhelming, but through it all, something worse came. Memories. He saw Amata throwing him from the vault, Riley lying in a coma in Underworld, Dad being gunned down at project purity, the Pitt and the face of the child he'd taken from her parents for a cause he still wasn't sure about, the Anchorage simulation and the death he'd witnessed, the mother he'd abandoned on the dock…the list went on.

Suddenly he was surrounded by ghostly figures, they seemed so real, yet he knew they couldn't be. Or maybe they were. "Stay down, slave, it's no less than you deserve." The gravelly voice belonged to Ishmael Ashur, the ex-paladin turned raider king, a man long dead, killed by Charles himself. The Lone Wanderer gazed up through the pain at Ashur's face, looking very real, "After stealing my child you deserve no pity." The boss drew a pistol and shot the Vault Dweller direct in the chest.

The pain of the bullet amplified everything he already felt in his mind, yet it wasn't the only one. Even as he clutched the wound, a different face appeared, Mr. Burke. "What good do you think you did, saving Megaton? Those people will still die in squalor! As if that wasn't bad enough you let the ghouls into Tenpenny Tower and they killed everyone as soon as you were left. Everyone. How's that for justice? Their blood is on your hands." With that, Burke raised a pistol of his own and shot Charles, putting a bullet in his chest next to Ashur's. The pain was exquisite.

"You drove me to this Charlie," Amata's voice echoed from behind him, so sweet even after all this time, "We could have lived in peace in the vault, you and me. But you didn't stop your dad, you didn't bring any peace, you just made things worse." He didn't want to look at her, but he heard the gun, and felt the bullet strike him in the back, driving the air from his lungs and driving him to the floor.

"Look me in the eye, boy." The new voice spat out. It was a voice he'd heard only once in his life, but he'd know it anywhere. He looked up from the floor into the face of Augustus Autumn, who was crouching over him, pistol in hand. "I killed your father, boy." Those words stung worse than the three bullets and mental anguish combined. "I killed your father and you did nothing. No," he paused, thinking aloud, "You did less than nothing. You could have avenged your father, helped Lyons restore Project Purity, attacked the Enclave, hell, you could have stayed in Megaton and protected it, but instead you ran away to have a pity party because Amata dumped you and you lost your daddy. Pathetic." Then Autumn shot Charles as well, the bullet striking him in the back next to Amata's.

The young man shuddered, blood leaking from his face, pain racking his body, the world around him fading in and out. Then he saw James. "Son," the doctor told him gently, waving aside the other specters with the brush of a hand. "Remember what I told you. You need to let me go, let the Pitt go, 101, everything. Your time is not done, and the Capital Wasteland needs you now more than ever."

"I love you dad." Charles grit his teeth and stood, watching the ghosts around him, save James who remained smiling, fade away. If Calvert had eyes they would have been as wide as dinner plates.

"How?" He squawked, "The force of my mental attack was impossibly strong! You should be dead! The force of the dark memories within you should have guaranteed it!" The brain began twitching in the jar, as if trying to flee, the strength of the psychic attack increasing. The pain in his skull grew, but Charles ignored it, wiping the blood from his nose and eyes with the sleeve of his vault suit.

"That's where you're wrong, Calvert." He aimed the shotgun towards the glass. "It would have killed me at one point. But I learned something about myself on Point Lookout. Here, on this island, I learned one very important secret." He leaned closer to the glass, "Do you want to know what it is?"

"What?" The brain whispered, its voice quivering in fear.

"I learned to forgive myself." Charles pulled the trigger. Both barrels of the weapon boomed throughout the chamber as twin shotgun shells blasted the glass aside, severing Calvert's connection to the chamber. As the brain fell to the floor of its containment tube and the strange liquid within drained away, Charles reloaded the weapon. "Now, if you don't mind, I have a project to reclaim." He pulled the trigger again. Calvert exploded like a popped balloon and the pain in his skull faded away, the gunshot wounds in his back and chest vanished.

The last thing to go was James. The doctor looked across at his only son and smiled. With a silent, respectful nod, he vanished.

* * *

It was dark. There were a few torches, and the glow of that mutant cave fungus, but it wasn't really enough to illuminate his surroundings. Though, judging by what he'd experienced as they'd brought him in, that blindness may have been a blessing.

The chamber he found himself in was a stone cave, enlarged by the island's residents. There was a cloying dampness in the air, suggesting there was water somewhere within the cavern. But it was the whispering that was the worst, that constant chattering and hushed suggestion just barely within audible range. It frightened him, because he was entirely certain he was alone in the cavern.

His hands were lashed to several planks of wood, holding him above the ground and straining his body, wrists rubbed raw by the coarseness of the rope keeping him aloft. The swampfolk had taken him and for what purpose he didn't know, or want to.

How long he hung alone in that half-darkness he couldn't guess, alone with nothing but the whispers and the flickering torches. Then, he heard the sound, a soft clicking. The noise grew steadily louder, as if the thing was advancing.

"Hello?" He shouted into the darkness of the room, "I'm sure this is a big misunderstanding! I'm not with the tribals! Not at all! No sir! In fact, I've always been partial to your kind! Please, just tell me what I can do to help you!" His words echoed, rapid-fire, throughout the small chamber, rumbling past the blocky object hidden by the shadows.

"Mistake?" A voice rasped back, clearly not one of the whispers, as he felt cold sweat run down his back and brow. "Mistake?" The voice said again, the clicking, tapping sound growing louder still, "There has been no mistake and there are never any events which could be called such. All things are usable to he who ever changes." The flickering torches revealed a robed, hunched over figure, carrying a gnarled wooden staff. He was terrifying, as if somehow larger and more powerful than he initially appeared. The figure approached the blocky shape and took something off of it. A dagger, a crooked dagger, gleaming in the light of torches

He began to sweat harder. "Please, I don't know anything! I swear to you I don't! Just let me go! I won't tell anyone anything!"

"Hush," the figure ordered, shuffling across the chamber, knife in hand, "It is not about what you know, that is true. But it is who you are. You will draw him here, and he must come to this chamber. I have seen it in the reflecting pool."

A brief flicker of hope. "So…you won't kill me?" He asked nervously.

"Not yet." The figure took the knife and approached, "But this is a sacred place, hallowed ground. And hallowed ground calls for blood."

As the first cut of the blade burned across his exposed torso, Tobar the ferryman found himself screaming, but whether it was from fear or pain he couldn't honestly say.

* * *

 **AN: I had to jazz up the Calvert fight scene, it just felt better that way. Alas, poor Tobar. What'll be his fate? And for those of you worrying about Riley and the others, don't worry, we'll see them soon. :) As always, thanks for reading and please remember to review. Until next time.  
**


	14. A Choice

"That son of a bitch really did a number on my head," Desmond growled, mopping the damp blood and sweat off his face with a handkerchief. After Calvert's death the psychic attacks had faded away, leaving both men battered but alive. While the crotchety old ghoul had nearly died, it seemed he'd been tough enough to outlast the mental assault. Charles wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

"Mine too, but he's out of commission for good," Charles agreed, trying to find some neutral ground with the ghoul.

"Glad that little bugger's dead," Lockheart snarled with a venom Charles had grown to expect from him, "Wish I could have pulled the trigger myself, or at least got to watch you pull it, but I won't be weeping any tears over the how of it. He's dead, and that's what matters." The ghoul dug into his suit jacket, withdrawing a packet of cigarettes and placing one between his teeth. Without prompting he offered a cigarette to Charles, who gratefully accepted.

"So what now?" Charles asked after taking the lighter from Desmond and setting the tip of his smoke ablaze, "Now that your hated rival is paste and all that."

Desmond blew a cloud of smoke, filling the air with the sweet scent of tobacco. "Now? I suppose I can get back to the purpose behind my visit to this glorified shit stain of an island." He inhaled deeply before letting the smoke filter out of his nostril cavity.

"Which was?" Charles asked casually, letting the smoke drift about his face, feeling dried blood across his features he was too tired to remove. Tapping the cigarette against his boot, the Lone Wanderer morbidly watched the pile of ash hit the walkway and slip through the cracks to the computer batteries below.

"Forget it kid, this stuff is above your pay grade."

"Right," Charles shrugged, "Because after all the weird crap I've seen, and after saving your ass, twice, I'm certainly not able to know about your top secret mission." The sarcasm was palatable. For some reason it seemed to work on the ghoul, perhaps he'd always wanted to talk about the mission but it had never been kosher.

"Shit. Fine, when you put it like that." Desmond paused, tapping a fleshless finger against his pointed chin. "Where to begin…I'm old, okay?'

"Never would have guessed," Charles said in mock surprise, returning the cigarette to his teeth.

"Shut it asshole," the British ghoul growled, "You'll live longer that way. Now, where was I?" He took a draft of smoke, glancing down at his filthy fingernails with a casual dismissal that would have hurt Charles had he cared about Desmond's opinion. "Before the war, right when the shit was about to hit the fan in a major way, the British government, what was left of it by that point anyway, received some information about a doomsday cult with some very powerful ties. The brass thought this cult had the potential to end the world. So they sent me, and a few other lads, to stamp it out."

"The world ended." Charles pointed out, as if Desmond weren't aware, "Did you miss the entire Great War?"  
The ghoul snorted, a remarkable feat considering his lack of proper nose. "You think this is about nukes?" He shook his head, "This is so much bigger than that, and I'm not going to quit doing my job because Britain isn't what she used to be. Once this cult is completely eradicated, then, and only then, will I settle into a well deserved retirement. I hear Boston is lovely these days. Or Fiji, maybe I'll rot away on a beach until I die. Huh, might be nice."

 _Crazy old bastard, brain's probably started rotting away already._

"Okay." There wasn't much else Charles could say really, it was what it was. "Listen, Desmond." He began the all important question and answer session; getting the toughest man he'd ever met to spill some secrets. "I helped you, I helped you plenty, I think."

"Do you?" Desmond asked snidely. Charles ignored him and carried on as best he could.

"I saved your ass back there," he stated bluntly, "If you don't want to acknowledge it, that's fine by me, but we both know it happened. So, here's what I want."

"Making demands are you? I'm not some goddamn genie who can grant you three goddamn wishes, go bother someone else for your magic car and sexy girlfriend." He turned his head slightly away, not bothering to make eye contact with the Vault Dweller, clearly preferring to examine his fingernails instead.

"I only have one wish, and it's one you can grant." Charles got up and made his way across the walkway, crouching in front of Desmond in such a way the British agent had to look him in the eye. "I came to this island on a ferry, _The Duchess Gambit_. The captain of that tug, one Tobar, has taken something important to me and disappeared into the island." He paused, "I know you have eyes all over Point Lookout, and probably contacts to boot. So tell me, Desmond, where has Tobar gone off too?"  
The ghoul blew a cloud of smoke out the side of his mouth, rolling his eyes back and off to the left. "I do know the man you speak of. Pudgy, talks far too much, tentative alliance with the tribals?" Charles nodded, "The man who slices brains like a goddamn amateur surgeon?" The Vault Dweller scowled but said nothing, very thankful for the Confederate cap covering the still notable scar on his head.

"Yeah, that's him. So, where the hell is he?"

Desmond sighed, "I don't know." Before Charles could begin ranting, the Brit held up a hand, "Before you ask, no. I'm not jerking you around this time. As much as it pains me to admit," he ground his yellowed teeth together, as if saying the words aloud caused him actual, physical pain, "I wouldn't have survived this fight against Calvert without you, so believe me, I want to clear up this little 'IOU' as quickly as possible myself." He ground out the cigarette against his badly scuffed shoes, standing to his feet in a sharp, motion.

"So you can't help me…" Charles spat his own cigarette out of his mouth, watching the glowing end burn out as it fell to the metallic floor below.

"Didn't say that." The ghoul cut him off with a wave of his hand, "I don't know where Tobar is, but I know someone who would." He paused, more for dramatic effect than any discernable purpose. "Tobar mostly trades with the disgusting tribal peoples who call Point Lookout home, but not with them exclusively."

"What do you mean?" Charles asked, suddenly very curious as to exactly what he did mean. It was true that the Lone Wanderer hadn't exactly explored the island with a great deal of thoroughness, but he assumed there weren't any other major players on Point Lookout, the small island didn't exactly have room for another faction.

"There's a man living here, family's had a stake on this island almost as long as the Calverts, longer actually, he claims. Odd old bastard, don't much care for him myself, gives me the creeps, and I don't scare easily." The filthy glare he sent Charles' way was more than enough to dissuade the inevitable comment Charles was already forming. "He goes by the name of Obadiah Blackhall, and he lives alone in a mansion like Calvert's on the other side of the island, Blackhall manor. Big ugly thing, hedges needed trimming, couldn't miss it."

Charles wasn't sure why, but merely hearing that name sent a shiver down his spine. "Probably just cold in here…" he mumbled under his breath. Yet somehow he didn't find that answer entirely satisfying.

* * *

As soon as the vertibird touched down on solid ground Jericho leaped out the open side door and hit the earth, lying prone against it. Riley couldn't prove anything, but she could have sworn she heard the raider weeping and muttering, "I'll never leave again I swear."

Riley, having endured the trip with a far sturdier stomach than the old bandit hopped gently onto the knee-high grass, glancing through Infiltrator's scope at the surrounding terrain, scanning it for any sign of trouble. As the team followed suite, she managed to hide her repulsion at the smell with some concentrated effort. The whole island reeked, of rotting flesh and vegetation, mud, garbage and numerous smells she cared not think too much about.

"Well, I think that's going to put a damper on tourism season round here," Donavan commented, tapping his nose with his disgust clearly visible, "I imagine if our wandering friend knew about that stench he'd have stayed home." There was levity to the words but Riley knew her tech-master better than she knew just about anyone and she could read his tells. Donavan was nervous.

"Should have asked me a thing or two," Dashwood announced without the slightest care in the world, pulling out a battered and weathered old flyer he'd kept folded neatly in the rear pocket of his khakis. Unlike the harden mercenaries all around him, each of whom seemed to be struggling with the stench, Daring seemed entirely unbothered, almost giddy in fact.

"What's that?" Riley asked in a tone that didn't quite demand to know why the brochure had been hidden from her but certainly made it clear she wanted answers.

Tipping his fedora apologetically towards her, Dashwood explained, "Apologies, Captain, I wanted to be sure that it was still viable." He passed the well-worn brochure to her, explaining as he did, "Found it in the ruins of some old tourist trap when Argyle and I first arrived on this delightful little speck of land. It's from the prewar days far as I could tell." Riley's examination of the object revealed it to be a map of the island, with promotional consideration for restaurants and tours long dead splattered across the sides. Several places of note had been identified by the map as worth the tourist's time with splashy banners and colors but Riley was more concerned with the notes added to the map in felt-tip pen, notes made by one Herbert Dashwood.

"And you think it is?" She wanted to be certain the old man knew exactly what he was talking about. The map smelled vaguely of mildew, which considering the surrounding environment, was almost pleasant.

"We passed what I'd assume was Pilgrim's Landing on our way in," the adventurer gestured towards the dilapidated ruins on the distant horizon, shielding his eyes from the blistering sun with the flat of his hand even though he was already wearing a hat. "If that's the case this map is still somewhat accurate."

"This reminds me of Vietnam!" Sarge howled, flying out of the vertibird with a loud, patriotic war-whoop. Evidentially, Charon had gotten the power back on and the Mr. Gutsy was making up for lost time, circling the surrounding environment and hacking at trees and tall grass with his buzzsaw. The flamethrower arm looked ready to go but considering the remarkable dryness of the area, Riley hoped the robot would exercise restraint, falling that an order might prove necessary.

Charon came next, ducking his skinless head beneath the low sides of the vertibird's massive open doors, shotgun in hand. Dogmeat bounded happily after him, tongue hanging limply in his mouth as he rolled around on the ground, familiarizing himself with the strange sights and smells of the new island.

Tucker removed himself from the cockpit, leaping out from the cockpit without concern for the mud that action raised. Lighting up a fresh cigar, the Gunner sergeant approached Daring without much concern, expression hidden by the sunglasses but body language suggesting this was nothing more than a pleasant afternoon stroll through the neighborhood for him. "Alright Daring, I got you all to this garbage island." He glanced about casually, letting the smoke cloud shield him from the worst of the stench, "This field here was the best place I could see to put Vera down, ground's solid and we're close to that town over there," he gestured towards the buildings Dashwood had identified as Pilgrim's Landing. "I'd search there for this missing friend of yours before heading deeper into this place." His head moved about, as if scanning the surroundings, but with eyes hidden it was hard to tell the intent. "I tell you," he whispered so that only Daring and Riley heard him, "Something doesn't sit right with me about this whole island."

"Well, we appreciate the lift," Riley told the Gunner, offering her hand. As he shook it firmly, the sound of banging, clattering metal erupted from the vertibird. Riley looked past the Gunner and noted Molly beginning to drop several portable turrets out of the vehicle's cargo-bay. Positioning them in various points around the landed vertibird, Tucker's XO began the lengthy process of activating each one. Once the turrets were happily humming away, perpetually scanning the horizon for threats, the stocky mercenary reentered the vertibird, returning with a roll of razor wire.

"Listen," Tucker responded after shaking Riley's hand, "One merc to another, I'll give you an extra day, but that still only gives you five. You're not back here by then, I'm leaving without you."

"What?" Riley wasn't aware of that part of the deal. "Five days? To search the whole bloody island? What the hell makes you think we'll be able to find him in that time? Or get back? You have to stay."

"Not my problem," he shrugged, "My deal with Daring was to get you here. If you all die out there in the swamp I'll be waiting forever, and I've got work of my own. Besides," he gestured back towards Vera, "I don't have the food reserves for that kind of wait." Before the leader of the Rangers could further protest, Tucker pointed out, "Your boyfriend's got an appetite for destruction? On an island like this he should be easy enough to find."

Riley felt her hands clench, fingers tightening into fists, but before she could act further, and more likely make things difficult, Donavan was at her side, squeezing her shoulder comfortingly. "Riley, it's alright. We'll find him don't worry." He nodded respectfully towards Tucker, "We'll be back, just keep the engines hot."

Tucker smiled grimly, "I imagine when the time comes to fly it'll be in all our best interests to be out of here as swiftly as possible."

* * *

The swampfolk attacked him again.

He was heading towards the area marked out by Desmond as the location of Blackhall manor, a large open area, full of tall grass, rotted, twisted trees, and stagnate, scummy rivers. He'd been keeping his eyes open, scanning the surrounding area as best he could, but the heat of the day beating down, combined with the swaying wind lulled him into a false peace.

The ambush party erupted from the grass and rotting docks, bearing down on him with a combination of axes, shovels, shotguns and pistols, five beings in total. He killed the first with his sawed-off shotgun, the second and third with Wild Bill's pistol. After that, the melee was swift, bloody and insane. Somehow, when it was all over, he was cut in several places, with an eye swollen shut from a shovel blow, but he had won. Taking a moment to curse his missing Chinese assault rifle and the superior firepower it would have given him, Charles wiped down his baseball bat as best he could, removing the blood and brain matter the attacking swampfolk had unwittingly donated.

Once he was clean, a Stimpak administered to deal with the wounds and a shot of moonshine, also generously donated by his attackers, for the pain, Charles continued on his way.

 _I can't help but wonder if that group was more sent to find out where I was than stop me._

The remainder of his journey towards Blackhall manor was uneventful.

Somehow, despite Blackhall being in far better shape than the Calvert mansion had been, there was an air of menace emanating from that property he'd never felt in Desmond's impromptu lair.

The exterior walls had, at some point in the distant past, been white, but ages of soot, dirt and mud had worn down that color into an uninspired grey. Every window on the property was boarded up, though none of the panes appeared to be broken. The lawn and surrounding fences were, if not actually maintained, in remarkably sturdy condition, with the grass of the lawn lower than anywhere he'd seen it on the island.

Wild Bill's sidearm was in his hand as he crouch walked towards the front door. There was something about the slanted, shingled roof that cast a shadow far darker than should have been naturally possible, yet somehow was. The large, oaken double doors glared outward at him, almost daring him to use the sturdy brass knockers and wake the sleeping beast of a house from its slumber.

 _Well, here goes._

Taking the knocker in his hand, and finding it remarkably cool, Charles thumped it against the door. Despite the normality of his action, the impact seemed to boom throughout the house. The sound echoed, seeming to reverberate from the manor outward, thundering throughout the surrounding area. Charles' free hand fell to the sawed-off shotgun, glancing about nervously for the inevitable ambush of swampfolk who'd been summoned by the noise. Yet nothing happened. There was the faint humming of a far off bloodbug, and the whistle of the wind, but that was it. More remarkably, the interior of Blackhall manor remained silent; there was no notable shift within.

Thinking that perhaps, somehow, whoever lived within had missed the sound, he knocked again. However, just like the previous attempt, there was no response from within the haunting building.

With a deep breath, and the pistol in his hand, Charles tried the door ready with bobby pins should it come to that. Yet when his hand fell upon the tarnished brass knob he discovered that the manor was unlocked.

 _Creepy._

Pushing the doors inward slowly his ears were assaulted with a screeching squeal as the hinges reacted to movement. Hissing involuntarily through his teeth at the sound, he took a step into the darkened halls. The boarding of the windows had had a singular effect, effectively rendering the building as dark as a tomb, save the space immediately before the entrance where light from the open door streamed through illuminating the dusty cabinets and cobwebbed arches that hadn't seen a duster in time beyond counting.

Taking a step inward, pistol held forward in both hands, Charles' eyes scanned the building for any signs of life, yet finding nothing. For a moment, he thought he heard something whispering, faintly, in the corner behind him, but as he turned to face the sound, Pip-boy light illuminating the entire area, he found nothing.

Shaken by the jump scare, the Vault Dweller doused the Pip-boy light and returned to his search for life. Every step threw up a cloud of dust and squeaked the floorboards, every glanced revealed deeper, darker shadows. That faint, not-quite whispering continued the source hidden, no matter where the Lone Wanderer glanced and before long he found the collar on his vault suit damp with sweat despite the chilliness of the building.

Though it felt like months had passed him by near constant glances down at his Pip-boy's clock proved just the opposite, he'd been inside the manor for mere minutes. "This place is messing with me," he mumbled to himself, words vanishing into the surrounding darkness.

He was about ready to give up and flee outward for a smoke break, and possibly never return when he caught something out of the corner of his eye, the flicker of candlelight at the end of an adjoining hallway. Weapon still pointed ahead, Charles crept along the wall, making his way towards the light. As he drew closer, the weak glow of the candles began to multiply, almost reaching outward into the hallway. That hallway ended with a doorway, the door that would have rested within the frame having been removed.

The interior of the room, like the rest of the manor, had its windows boarded up, though the linen curtains visible within seemed fully functional. The stone floor was remarkably clean, a sharp contrast to the rest of the manor. Two cabinets leaned against the walls, full of plates, books and silverware, all seeming used. An oaken table stood before the cabinets, an electric hotplate glowing warmly atop it, implying some form of power existed throughout the house, regardless of the lack of light. The table was unaccompanied by chairs. A fold out cot was placed across from it adjacent to a night stand and dresser. An old sea chest was the only other object present in the room, locked and dusty, as opposed to the rest of the furniture.

Every free inch of table top, floor space and windowsill was covered in candles brightly burning away. Such soft light should have provided a sense of warmth and peace, however, the shadows they cast were harsh, sharp and long, adding an air of menace to the entire room.

Sitting alone in the corner was an old man. His hair was snowy white, his face more wrinkles than visible flesh, his skeletal frame hunched forward, clothes hanging limply on a body that could no longer support them. Yet his eyes were sharp, and hungry, like a Deathclaw sizing up prey. Yet this withered figure was nothing like one of those beasts, and the threatening air surrounding him made little sense, as he sat in a wheelchair, bony knuckles gripping the handles, an oxygen tank connected to the chair feeding a supply of breathable air into his ancient nostrils.

"I can see you standing in the dark," the man gasped out, the very act of talking seeming difficult for him, "And I heard you knocking, so let us dispenses with the pleasantries."

Feeling more than a little embarrassed by the need he'd felt to carry a drawn gun, Charles returned Wild Bill's pistol to his holster, stepping forward into the flickering light of the room, holding his empty hands up so the old man could see he meant no harm, "I'm not here to hurt you."

"That's good," the wheelchair bound man stated with a hacking, dry cough, "I'd hardly be in a position to argue with you if you were." With slow, ponderous motions, the old man wheeled himself forward into better light. "If you aren't here to rob me, can I ask why you'd broken into Blackhall manor and disrupted my day plans?" His voice was harsh, bitter and somehow, despite his obvious disadvantage, he seemed utterly unafraid of Charles.

"I'm looking for information," he began, trying to set the stage. "An…associate…of mine named Desmond Lockheart said that Obadiah Blackhall would know what I needed." Despite his best attempts, Charles seemed incapable of calling Desmond friend, in no small part due to the animosity Desmond displayed towards him.

The old man's eyes narrowed slightly as the mention of the ghoul's name, but he didn't speak on it. "Did he now?" The withered man shook his head, "I am Obadiah Blackhall, and this is my manor, as it was my father's, and his father's before him, all the way back to the very first Blackhall who laid the foundation. Even so, I don't know that much about Point Lookout, it's an ancient and dangerous place, not fit for civilized men to go tramping about unescourted. What makes this…associate… of yours so confident I can help?" Obadiah's voice was getting higher pitched as he shouted, tone cracking and squeaking like a rusty wheel.

"Well, why don't I tell you what I need to know before you go about asking what good it is?" He tried to keep his tone neutral but he failed miserably, the sarcasm leaking outward and infecting his words. "I'm looking for the ferryman, Tobar. I understand you do some business and might know where he's hiding out."

"Is he in trouble?" The question was flat and toneless.

"Yeah…"

 _You bet he is._

The old man leaned back in his chair, stroking his withered chin with ancient fingers, "Are you familiar with the barter system?" Rather than answer the insulting question, Charles stood silent, "Of course you are. I've got something you want and you can do something for me. We'll perform this exchange of services and leave as happier men. If you are in agreement?"

 _Not that I have any really choice. I can't stay on this island any longer._

"Yes." The word came through grit teeth. Charles knew nothing about Obadiah, and what he did know he didn't particularly like, but options were limited. He needed medicine, rest…the people he'd left behind. His body was itching again, the Med-x cravings unbeatable forever; he resisted with Herculean force of will and spoke to Blackhall again. "Tell me what you need done."

"Excellent. We are in business." He stepped his fingers, leaning further back in the chair and taking a deep breath from his oxygen tank. "You've no doubt met this island's rather charming inhabitants? The deformed bunch, those swampfolk?"

"I've got the scars to prove it," Charles stated without bravado.

"I'd imagine so…" Obadiah whispered mysteriously. "These swampfolk, and I, well, we don't see eye to eye on a lot of things. They despise me for my superior intellect, my superior existence if you will, savages, the lot of them." Obadiah looked down his nose, sneering as if he could actually see one of the inbreds sitting before him. "Years ago, when I was a far younger man, they attacked my family home in force and stole something of mine, something very precious, nearly killed me in the process." He slapped the side of his wheelchair angrily, scowl rippling across his face, "You can see that my ability to retrieve my property has been somewhat compromised."

"What did they take?" The Lone Wanderer asked cautiously, resisting the urge to show too much interest. One more little task, just one, and he could return. No matter what was between him and the objective, it would fall, and he'd return home, he'd return to Riley.

"They took an ancient tome, a book that has been in my family for generations, the Krivbeknih." He snorted dramatically, "Those idiot mutants think the book has some mystical powers and have made it part of their moronic religion. Do not be alarmed, it's simply an old, and admittedly interesting, book. There's nothing special about it, beyond its rarity."

"Where are they keeping this…Krivbeknih?" Charles asked, fumbling over the word as he did. The name seemed vaguely familiar, liked he'd read a footnote about a whisper about a rumor of something with that name but nothing solid came too mind.

"They have this sacred cave, a ritual point for their primitive faith," the Blackhall explained, "It should be easy enough to find from here, just follow the trail of totems. The book will be in the deepest chamber of this cavern." There was a pause, Charles mentally determining what he'd just been told, "It'll be dangerous," the old man admitted, rather too eagerly for the Vault Dweller's taste, "So I'll sweeten the deal. The location of Tobar and two thousand caps. Is that an arrangement to your liking?"  
 _Holy crap._

"It very much is." Charles shook the old man's hand firmly. Obadiah had a strong grip for a man so frail. "You want me to bring the book back here?"

"To me as soon as you can. Once that is done you'll receive the information and the caps." Obadiah gestured westward out one of his boarded-up windows, "Head that way for a mile and you'll encounter the first totem. Be careful, the swampfolk are thick in that area."

Charles drew his lever-action rifle, "I think I can handle a few more swampfolk, I've come this far."

"Good to hear." Obadiah turned his wheelchair away, ignoring Charles, "Now go, and find my book."

The excuse to remove himself from Blackhall manor was one he took with much enthusiasm, heading for the door as fast as he could without running. The sunlight, though heavy with radiation, was suddenly glorious, the muggy air a wonderful change from the clinging dampness of those unhallowed halls.

"What the hell was that place?" He didn't whisper, but he didn't shout, the words fading away into the ether. Glancing in the direction Obadiah had specified Charles took his first steps.

It wasn't until the manor was out of sight that Marcella made herself known.

She approached him from a nearby bluff, hands held outward in as non-threatening a gesture as she could make considering the circumstances of her arrival. "Charles, I come in peace, just hear me out." A pair of binoculars hung off her belt and the double-barrel shotgun he remembered was still on her back. Besides, if she'd wanted to hurt him she'd had a much better opportunity earlier when she was stitching him up.

Returning the lever-action rifle to his back, Charles raised his hands in a similar gesture, "Marcella, after saving my ass you've more than earned the right to be heard." He took a step towards here, listening to the mud squish beneath his boots, "Though, you could start with, what you're doing here and how you knew where I was?"

The missionary tapped the binoculars on her waist. "I've been watching Blackhall manor for several days now, gathering clues. I even went inside once, disguised as a smuggler. I don't think old Obadiah knew me exactly, but he suspected I wasn't who I said I was, he was very coy." She shook her head grimly, "The evil in that place is like nothing I've ever felt before, and I've seen evil, I've…" She paused, refusing to go forward.

Charles snapped his fingers as all the pieces fell into place, "The artifact you came to the island for, it's the Krivbeknih isn't it?" She nodded grimly, "So, I'm guessing it's not just some old family oddity then?"

"Listen to me very carefully," Marcella looked him in the eye, ensuring that he caught every word, "There are objects in this world, dark objects, uncovered by foolish men. The Krivbeknih is one of these, an item of unspeakably horrifying powers. It must not be allowed to fall into Obadiah's hands again, he'd use it. The Abbey of the Road has made this my top priority."

"Look Marcella…" Charles chewed over his words with the utmost care, "It's not that I don't believe you….I've seen plenty of weird shit in my day, that's for sure." He paused again, "Look…I need to give that book back to Obadiah, when I do he's going to help me find Tobar. I need to get off this island, Marcella." He was emphatic, "I can't stay here any more, it's eating me alive. They need me back home."  
To his utter surprise, Marcella didn't immediately beg or plead with him to change his mind. Instead she looked at him and spoke simply. "Charles, there is a good man within you, you know that, you were him. I need you to bring this book to me back at the camp where we first met, because I'm going to destroy it." Before he could speak further, she continued, boldly, "I can't offer you caps, like Obadiah no doubt did to further entice you, I don't know the location of Tobar the Ferryman, though I'll happily help you look once the Krivbeknih is secure. All I can truly offer you is the knowledge that you are doing what's right, no matter the cost. Which I think your old self would appreciate."

She turned around and began the journey back towards her beach-side camp. Charles was stunned, "Wait!" He shouted after the missionary. Marcella paused, turning back to face him, "You aren't going to come with me? Ensure I give the book to you? Force my good behavior? I could go straight to Obadiah and get the hell out of here." He knew he was speaking too much and, for the life of him, had no idea why he was spouting off everything he did. Yet he had to know, he had to know why this woman, a far better person than he, trusted this seemingly vital task to him.

She smiled, warm and trusting. "Go with you? Charles," She told him in a tone so soft it almost vanished on the air, "This is more important than mere religion, causes or battles, this is about a man's soul. You stand at the crossroads of your life, do you come back to the light you once held and reclaim the mantel of guardian of the waists? Or do you sink deeper into the darkness than ever before for your own sake? To force you to make one choice or another would eliminate the value of that choice, so I will wait." She smiled again, "I have faith in almighty God, and I have faith in His servants, no matter how reluctant they may be," she nodded ruefully towards the Lone Wanderer. "So I will wait patiently for you, and if you don't come…I wish you the best of luck."

She turned for good that time and walked away, but the words she'd said hung in the air around Charles, somehow more physical than the woman herself had been. Sweat beaded down his forehead once again and he found his trembling fingers fumbling in his pockets for a cigarette. His hands were shaking so badly it took almost a fully minute of fiddling with the lighter to get the cigarette lit. Breathing smoke deeply into quivering lungs, he stood at the metaphorical crossroads and shuddered, feeling a chill run throughout him.

"No pressure right?" He said aloud, with a weak chuckle. After a few moments passed, the Lone Wanderer stamped out the cigarette and went to meet destiny.

* * *

 **AN: Somehow I don't think Sarge was ever in Vietnam. :P Also Blackhall finally appears. We're getting close to the end of the ride but we aren't there yet so buckle your seatbelts kids, it's going to get rough.  
**


	15. The Dark Heart of the Island

There was a slight breeze, not enough to actually reduce the heat beating down from the radioactive sun but just enough to tickle across exposed skin giving the ghostly sensation of someone breathing nearby.

To Jericho, Point Lookout seemed like a living thing, a sentient organism that was very angry at him. He was an invader, an intruder, a gnat on the shoulder of a giant and somehow the ex-raider knew it. His Chinese assault rifle was aimed forward, grip on the trigger steady, yet even so he didn't feel safe. He was a battle-hardened former raider, he'd seen, and done, some absolutely horrifying shit and he was with a team that included a Mr. Gutsy, several highly skilled mercs and a ghoul bodyguard whose very existence was violence and still Jericho felt threatened.

He was leading the party, advancing through the hauntingly abandoned streets of Pilgrim's Landing, scanning for any movement that wasn't a paper cup blowing with the wind. To his right Charon did the same, though unlike Jericho the ghoul seemed calm, collected, at ease with the developments as if nothing were out of the ordinary for him.

"I'd hate to be here alone," Jericho mumbled to the other, even as Dogmeat slipped between the two men sniffing the ground intently, "I'm getting the shivers from this place, like someone just stepped on my future grave."  
"Yeah." Charon turned his gaze towards the direction of the sea, actually shivering and Jericho noted with surprise, it was the first time he'd seen the ghoul display any kind of weakness. "I can't imagine the boss surviving here on his own."

Behind the bandit and bodyguard, Riley, Donavan and Dashwood came up, pouring over the map and surrounding terrain with weapons drawn, just in case. Behind them came Sergeant RL-3, remarkably silent considering his usual personality of shouting patriotic catchphrases.

Jericho slapped the bottom of his assault rifle's clip, just to ensure it was properly locked into place. If it came to combat he was ready, with a reload on his belt he could grab in seconds. Even Dashwood, who possessed the most casual attitude out of everyone involved, had the Bushmaster in his hands, eyes narrowed in search of enemy combatants.

"Hey Charon?" The bandit whispered again, determined not to be overheard by Riley, "You think the boss is still alive? Realistically, I mean."

"Oh yeah." The bodyguard didn't even hesitate, "For a kid, he's pretty tough. You weren't there when we stumbled across that pack of Super Mutants outside the Super-Duper mart, Charles ripped right through them." He glanced back out towards the town, trying desperately to find some clue to his employer's whereabouts. "If anyone could have survived an environment this hostile, it's him."

"Good." Jericho was surprised to discover it really would be. He hadn't seen the kid since the fight over 101 and he found himself regretting how they'd parted, the things he'd said. Despite everything, he'd grown fond of Charlie, considering him as close a friend as it would be possible for the salty old ex-raider to have anyway. The thought of Charles lying dead, lost for eternity on Point Lookout didn't sit right with him.

"Everybody freeze!" Charon hissed suddenly, holding his right hand up in a fist, a motion that halted everyone as quickly as his words. Even Dogmeat froze in place, dropping to his belly and whining softly against the boardwalk.

Riley made her way over to the ghoul as stealthily as she could, Infiltrator held tightly in her grip. "What's going on, Charon?" She whispered, "What did you see?"

The bodyguard pointed a fleshless finger towards the docks. "There." Jericho followed the direction, eyes falling upon a ferry tied up towards the end of the farthest dock. It was a small enough boat, the paint peeling and tired, with a few small holes punched in various points through the wood. However she seemed sturdy enough, floating happily upon the rolling waves of radioactive river water. Dogmeat turned his muzzle towards the tug, sniffing the air with a quizzical expression.

"That?" Riley asked cautiously, glancing through Infiltrator's scope at the vessel. "Looks abandoned to me."

"That's the boat Charles took to get here," Charon growled, "I'm sure of it." He cocked his head to the side, "Though why the hell it's still on the island is beyond me."

"He came over on that shitty thing?" Jericho enquired cautiously, examining what he could see of the _Duchess Gambit_ from the boardwalk. Aside from the golden paint spelling out the name of the ferry in remarkably crisp, clean letters, there wasn't a whole lot.

"Yeah…" was the only answer. The ghoul turned his attention momentarily towards the canine, "Hey, Dogmeat? Smell anyone on board?" The dog took a few steps forward, nose pressed to the ground. After a few cautious sniffs, he turned his attention to the air, sniffing away at that as well. Dogmeat barked frantically, lunging for the boat, kept in place only by Charon's firm grasp on his collar.

"Easy boy," the ghoul whispered, holding the dog back, "Easy." He turned his head towards Riley, "I'd say that confirms it."

"Do you think it's him?" Jericho asked, "What if it's someone else? We can't just walk up in the open like targets. If it's not Chucky we're going to get mowed down." He shook his head, "There's not a lot of cover from here to the boat…"

"Whether someone is onboard or not," Riley insisted, gazing through the scope again, scanning every visible portion of the _Duchess Gambit_ , "We know that Chuck came here on this boat, and hopefully some clue will lead us to him." She waved the remainder of the party over, quickly filling them in on the details.

"We need a plan of attack," Donavan stated clinically, "Well, perhaps attack isn't the right word, seeing as we might not shoot whoever's onboard." The tech turned his gaze on the open walkway with nothing but fallen Styrofoam for cover once they left the security of the alleyway.

"Jericho, you, Charon and Donavan are going to advance as slowly as possible, keep low, keep quiet," Riley ordered, slipping back into the role of mercenary captain with relative ease. "Dashwood and I will cover you from here." She turned to face the Mr. Gutsy, "Sarge, watch our backs, if anyone rolls in behind us I want them stopped."

The robot slapped his buzzsaw attachment against the highest point of his dome in the Mr. Gutsy equivalent of a salute, "Will do captain. Leave it to me! If any of those godless red bastards come sneaking up as they like to do they'll regret it, ho-ah!"

Jericho wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea of being target practice for whoever would have gotten a clear shot at him shuffling across the dock but he didn't argue. Perhaps it was because he felt Riley would have ignored any objections he made, or perhaps he really cared enough about Charles to risk it. Whatever the cause was, the old bandit merely nodded, holding his weapon ready. Donavan traced the four-leaf clover painted on his helmet directly over his forehead, "With lady luck at our side, nothing is out of our grasp." He smiled warmly, slapping Riley's armored shoulder. "Don't worry, this'll be a cakewalk." He drew his own assault rifle, flipping the safety switch to the off position.

The three men crouched low, moving slowly towards the tug, Jericho keeping his eyes partially on the ground to avoid stepping on anything that would make to much noise, gently pushing aside tin cans and Styrofoam containers. Charon, despite his height and muscular bulk, was a ghost, moving utterly silently, his dark leather armor somehow blending in with the gloom of the early morning shadows.

They were out in the open now, wind blowing gently by, entire forms exposed, yet still whoever was in the boat didn't act. Jericho found himself praying to whatever was out in the cosmos listening to protect his wrinkled old ass from a lucky shot. Either the cosmos was listening or he was lucky, either way his boots found the gangplank to the boat, Charon and Donavan right behind him. Charon waved the smoothskins behind him, gesturing to the automatic combat shotgun he wielded as proof of his point position.

More than happy to let someone else take the lead, Jericho willingly slid to the side, holding his Chinese assault rifle at the ready. Donavan looked back towards Riley, giving his captain the thumbs up. She responded in kind, so the tech motioned for Charon to advance.

The ghoul was up the ramp in three steps, yellow eyes scanning the deck for any sighs of a struggle or recent disturbance. A small spattering of blood coated one portion of the wood, while some empty shell casings rolled about with the wind. There seemed no other signs of struggle. Jericho and Donavan tried one of the doors and found it locked. After taking a few moments with his ear pressed against the door Donavan shook his head no, gesturing for the trio of armed men to move on. A few barrels and crates had been stacked about the deck but rummaging about them didn't reveal the phantom scent Dogmeat had detected.

They were about to give up when Jericho noticed the hatch to the lower level, almost hidden beneath a pile of canvas. Gesturing for his compatriots to join him, the ex-raider brought the others over. Placing the shotgun on his back, Charon carefully picked up the canvas, placing it gently off to the side. Retrieving his weapon, the ghoul took his place to the front of the hatch, Jericho beside him. Donavan gripped the hatch's handle with one hand, looking at the other two men and silently mouthing a countdown.

 _Three. Two. One._

Ripping the hatch open, Donavan shuffled backward out of the way. Inside the tug's belly was a young woman pointing a revolver. "I swear to Atom I'll blow your head off! I won't even hesitate! Tell Tobar this is my boat now!"

"Easy sister," Charon growled, "I think you've got us confused with someone else." In what Jericho considered an absolutely moronic move, the ghoul put his shotgun back on his back and offered the girl a hand. After an intense moment of pondering, the young woman took it, letting Charon pull her out of the storage compartment. Her hair, visible in the light, was a bright orange, almost exactly like Riley's, though she was far younger, features visibly pale and shaken.

"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" Jericho growled, leaning closer to the stranger, "And how do we know you aren't some kind of island psycho?"

"Easy man!" Donavan cautioned, pushing the barrel of the bandit's assault rifle towards the deck, "She's clearly not a threat to the three of us." He turned and waved for Riley, Dashwood and Sarge to come over, the coast was clear.

Grumbling, Jericho lowered his weapon, but his eyes remained locked on the girl, at the first sign of trouble he'd shoot her dead. This place was getting to him, must be, he was sweating.

"We're looking for a friend," Charon explained to the girl as slowly as possible, no doubt assuming she'd come from DC due to her complete lack of shock at seeing a ghoul, "Do you have any idea where he is? Smoothskin, brown hair and beard, he's come out of a vault so he's pretty pale, even for a human."

Jericho's gaze narrowed, staring intently at the woman's face, waiting for the description to elect some kind of reaction, anything that implied she knew more than she was letting on. To his surprise she instantly seemed to connect the dots.

"Charles? The guy in the blue jumpsuit?" There was a genuine smile behind the words, "Are you his friends from back home?"

"Something like that…" Charon admitted, "We're trying to find him and bring him home. Do you know anything about where he might be? Where he is?"

Donavan glanced about, "Seeing as this whole island seems like one never-ending ride from danger to danger."

"Charles went deeper into the island to find the key for this boat," The girl began explaining, her words continuing as Riley and the others made their way onto the _Duchess Gambit_ , "We've both had enough of Point Lookout, trust me. I was supposed to stay and watch the tug until he got back, then we we're getting the hell out of here back home to DC." She looked over at Riley, eyes filled with a curious expression, "You must be Riley…He's mentioned you…"  
"Really?" The mercenary's eyes were wide with hope, excitement, fear and some other, more negative emotions, "He did?" She shook her head and the wonder faded away, replaced with the steely expression of the soldier she was, "We need to find him, now. Before he gets himself into any real trouble…"

* * *

The first guard never even saw the knife.

The swampfolk was standing before the door, rusty hunting rifle in his hands, chewing messily away at some tobacco leaves while his fellow guard sat on a stump playing an old harmonica rather poorly. Tobacco chewer had just spit the wad of crushed plant matter and saliva into the grass when Charles made his move.

He'd crawled through the grass, whishing desperately he'd not lost the sniper rifle in the motel fire, before remembering morbidly that he'd never found a silencer for the weapon anyway and thus wouldn't have been able to use if in this situation even if he'd had it.

Blackhall hadn't been kidding about the swampfolk population in the area, the Lone Wanderer had had plenty of run ins with the inbreds during his time on Point Lookout, but nothing like those roving bands he'd slipped past, hiding, rather than fighting. It seemed suddenly very clear that the war between the tribals and the swampfolk he'd indirectly started was only going to end one way and he redoubled his efforts to recover the book for Obadiah and get to Tobar before the swampfolk ripped the ferryman to shreds.

The winding path of totems and markers took him deeper into the heart of the island, through the twisting woods of warped trees, branches so thick torches were needed to brighten the path through the darkness. There was heaviness about the air, an evil that wouldn't leave, no matter where he journeyed.

Eventually the forest path spat him out into the open field, hidden deep within the wood, ringed by trees. A small shack had been built in the center of the opening, before which two swampfolk guards were resting, their attention only halfway focused on the task at hand. There were no other natives to be seen but Charles had passed enough warbands armed with torches, guns and spears to chance any reinforcements, so drew the trench knife.

He made his way around the field, staying close to the darkness of the forest, letting the shadows shield him as he slid towards his intended target. The smell of tobacco emitted strongly from the standing guard. The stench increased when Charles rose behind him and slit the inbred's throat with one sharp motion. The harmonica player watched in horror as blood sprayed outward from his comrade's neck before sinking to his knees. He reached for the BB gun at his feet, but Charles crossed the divide in seconds, driving the trench knife clean through his chest. As the other guard sunk to the grass, Charles likewise dropped, pulling his blade free. Glancing about nervously, the Vault Dweller looked to the surrounding area for signs of reinforcements; any onrushing swampfolk who'd heard the scuffle and come to investigate.

Fortunately, it seemed the stealthy approach had been enough, for the field remained utterly silent, not even the wind made it into the dark place he now found himself in. Propping the corpses up as best he could in a mockery of life, Charles knew even a casual glance from halfway across the field would see through the disguise, but hopefully the marauding swampfolk wouldn't return until he was long gone.

Trying the door and finding it unlocked, Charles slipped into the shack. The interior of the building was, surprisingly enough, not actually a building. It was a far smaller space than appeared from outside, without walls, doors or furniture. Aside from the ominous torches that lined the walls, the only visible thing within was the ancient stone staircase leading deeper into the earth.

Glowing fungus had slowly inched its way up the stairs, embedded even in the uppermost step, trying to find a place to grow in the dirt floor of the shack without success. Despite the seeming blackness of the tunnels below, the soft glow of the fungus, coupled with even more torches, provided a scant amount of flickering illumination. Despite his better judgment, Charles stowed the knife and drew his sawed-off shotgun. Somehow, despite the increased firepower in his hands he felt just as nervous, just as helpless. A whispering breeze floated out of the tunnel, somehow, despite the absurdity of the idea.

For one brief second Charles actually considered turning back around and trying his best at finding Tobar on his own, anything to avoid sinking down into the dark heart of the island.

But then he focused his mind's eye on Riley.

He pictured her face, the sweet, smiling expression, framed impishly by her orange hair. The smattering of freckles, the crinkling of her nose; he heard her voice, the tinkling laugh she had whenever he cracked one of his self-deprecating jokes. He could smell her, the odd mixture of floral scents and gun metal oils, as if she was standing right behind him, giving him courage and strength to go on even now.

"I won't let you down, Riley," he promised the darkness around him firmly. Taking one long draft from his bottle of moonshine for courage, Charles began his descent down the stairs.

The dryness of the island faded away, replaced with a clinging dampness that suggested water, or something else he wasn't sure about. The stale air stank of sweat…and blood. Even with torches burning on the earthen walls every few steps the shadows grew long stretching out to grab him, drag him away into the earth itself. The walkway was winding, narrow, and branched out in several directions. He'd never thought of himself as particularly claustrophobic but it felt as if the tunnel would collapse on him at any second.

 _It will._

He wasn't sure if that was his own thoughts, or a voice just below the surface, filtering about on the air. A gently whisper both real and yet somehow not.

 _Get out. Get out now. Flee. Flee._

"What the hell?" He mumbled, feeling the palms of his hands sweat, the shotgun slipping in his hands. Quickly wiping both palms against the pantlegs of his vault suit, Charles chose the leftmost of the three twisting, branching paths before him. Bending sharply to the left, than right, than left again, this path sank into the earth deeper until it suddenly ended in a small room. At no point during the journey were there separate paths.

 _Unless there was and you missed them. Or perhaps they were hidden from you? You who wander in a domain clearly not your own?_

It was the not voice again, but the words were clear, and horrifyingly real, packed with real fear. Inside this small room was a table, chair, and a solitary lawn gnome staring blankly up at him. The walls of the room was buried beneath paints, horrifying things, red, yellow, twisted, misshapen images of creatures, violence and death. Once look at those paintings chilled him utterly, almost physically driving him from the room.

Normally he'd have grabbed the gnome, adding it to his collection back in Megaton, but something about this gnome's expression seemed leering, maniacal almost, his mind screamed not to turn his back to it. So he backed up slowly, leaving the empty room until he returned to the branching tunnels.

Ignoring the center-most one, he crossed over and went down the right tunnel, noting immediately it was wider and heavier traveled than the others. The stench of death and decay was far worse the farther down this tunnel he went. And once it split into three more tunnels and the smell was almost overpowering he almost didn't go further.

 _You know what's down there…your future, what you'll be when you don't leave, it's no less than you deserve, than you are._

Soldiering on despite the horrific sight he knew awaited him, Charles entered a side room. Thought he'd survived the horrors of the meat shack this was somehow worse. At least within that darkened closet the corpses where there for some kind of understandable purpose. Here the bodies, mutilated, tortured, missing limbs and terrified expressions, hung from the walls, hands nailed in place as the remaining blood dripped to the floor. Unable to contain himself, Charles vomited.

Despite everything, he forced himself to check every body, just in case anyone survived, yet not one of the tribals or smugglers still drew breath. He moved on to the second room of the side tunnel finding it near identical to the first, with the same number of mutilate corpses hanging from the walls, blood still dripping from several of the tribals, splattering against the floors and sinking into the earth.

The final room nearly broke him.

She was hanging nearest the door, eyes locked fear and just as mutilated as the others, bleeding out between two tribals, her hands pinned against the cavern walls. Marguerite the moonshiner, tortured and murder, all done at the hands of savages who'd left her alone until he'd shown up.

 _This is your fault you know. You dragged her into this, you should have paid the price for your sins, but you didn't, she did. It's a real shame._

He took her down, felt for a pulse, tried to nurse her back to the land of the living but she'd been gone for far too long, the damage was too extreme. Marguerite wasn't coming back.

Charles wasn't sure what he felt. There was sorrow, deep grief, yet, somehow, it was deeper than that. In some strange way she'd been the one to point him back towards Riley, towards his true self. To lose her this way cut at his very soul.

He closed her eyes, folding what remained of her hands over her chest, setting her at peace as best he could. Taking the hat from his head he tried to recall what Father Daniel had taught him all those years ago back in the vault. "The Lord giveth and taketh away," Charles stated firmly, voice unwavering, resolved to get through the process, "Dust we are made, dust we return, until He returns to call us to Him." Taking what remained of the moonshine from his duffle, Charles took a drink and poured the rest onto her body. When that container went dry he searched his bag for the bottle of scotch and likewise emptied it. Confident he'd found every bit of alcohol left in his possession, Charles added his own ending to the prayer, "Goodbye Marguerite. You gave me hope when I had none, gave me purpose again, helped me find myself. If there is a heaven, I hope I'll see you there so I can tell you to your face how you saved me."

He reached into his pocket and withdrew the lighter. Flicking the flame to life, the Vault Dweller dropped it onto the moonshiner's corpse. He stood by her body until he was confident she'd burn away to ash.

Returning the cap to his head, Charles returned to the tunnel divide. He finally went through the only path remaining, deeper still into the darkness of the earth. Another set of stone steps had been put in place, hand carved, covered in moss.

 _What are you doing? You saw what they did to her just for being with you. What do you think they'll do to you if you stay here?_

The stairs ended with a small stream, running through the path and disappearing through a small crack in the adjacent wall. Stepping over the water he found the dirt on the other side compact and dry, much like it had been in the previous portions of the cavern complex.

The torches burned brighter here, still casting the same ominous shadows across wherever they touched. Yet it was the whispering, the whispering in the back of his mind, in the air around him, floating in the darkness that continued to batter against the walls of his mind, refusing to leave him alone that truly terrified him.

The pathway ended in a circular chamber, somehow it was this chamber that frightened him most of all. There was no pomp, no ceremony, it was simple. Unlike the fancy totems, the elaborate paintings, the human sacrifices, there was nothing extreme within. There was an altar, a plain, stone block, dripping freely with a dark substance he didn't have to be a genius to determine was blood. Behind the altar was a simple marble pedestal and on that pedestal rested a book. The book was a strange thing, a cover of black leather, with disturbing images and symbols carved into it, somehow frozen and yet moving. There could be no doubt in his mind, this book was the Krivbeknih, had to be. Yet, just like Marcella had said, there was a physical sensation of power, of evil and darkness that leaked outward from the book. How an inanimate object could contain such a sensation was unknown to Charles, but what he was sure of was that his initial feelings about Obadiah were correct.

He was ripped to shreds internally; the need to escape Point Lookout was physical, primal, almost animalistic.

 _Do it. Leave the Krivbeknih behind and flee, don't look back._

However, the confidence Marcella had in him kept rising up in his mind, the absolute certainty he'd sacrifice himself for the greater good if it came to that. And James, the memory of his hallucinations of his father kept barging in as if James was there telling him to take the book to Marcella to be destroyed.

Yet all those internal debates ended in that moment, as a racking cough from behind the Krivbeknih sounded, echoing throughout the chamber. They were weak, pathetic, and yet, considering the emptiness of the deep, the sudden sound startled him. Grabbing one of the torches from the wall, Charles approached the shadows towards the unlit rear of the room. The darkness within the very back of the cavernous room was absolute, yet the power of the torch's glow chases it away.

Lashed to two wooden beams crossed together to make an X, bleeding from dozens of wounds, flesh pale, face gaunt, eyes wide with horror was Tobar. He'd been stripped from the waist upward, saggy paunch having experienced the worst of the torture, around his neck on a leather strap, hung a key which, shockingly hadn't been taken.

 _He's so pathetic, he'll never escape so what does it matter if he can start his boat? Besides, even if he did how far would he get?_

"Leave me alone!" The ferryman shrieked at the sudden whispering outburst, "Leave me alone!" He screamed again, shaking his body feebly against the bonds holding him in place above the ground. _  
_"Easy there," Charles said calmly, drawing closer to Tobar, who seemed to be trying not to look at him, "I'm not going to hurt you."

At one point that might have been a lie, but now, looking at the pathetic shell of the gregarious sailor who'd once talked his ear off for a month, he knew there was no way he was putting a bullet in Tobar anymore. Besides, the man seemed incapable of harming anyone after his experiences.

"You're not real!" He bellowed, "Just another lie twisted up by the whispers, inside my brain, inside my head, playing me like a pipe!" Tobar thrashed and twisted, trying to shake free of the bonds but, once again, was far too weak to escape. "You're sending him to me, to punish me, I stole his brain and he wasn't happy, he's here for me."

"Something like that," Charles growled, shoving his sawed-off back into its holster and drawing his trench knife. At the sight of the blade Tobar whimpered, eyes rolling back in his skull as tears leaked down his face, "Please…no…no more."

"I'm not here to torture you, Tobar," Charles said as gently as possible, taking his blade to the hemp rope and cutting the ferryman free. The man collapsed in a pile, continuing to whimper and cry, throwing his arms around the Lone Wanderer and squeezing him with all the strength remaining in his drained form.

"Oh thank you, thank you, a million times," he mumbled weakly into Charles' shoulder, "Whatever I can do to pay you back, anything, just get me out of here, please, please, take me out of here before he comes back."

Curiosity got the better of him. "Who?"  
Tobar grabbed Charles' collar roughly, "HIM! The crawling, creeping thing with the tapping staff, he cuts with his knife! He's not like the others, he's not like them at all, they think he is but he's not, he's smart, his mind is burning, IT speaks to him. I didn't believe but I heard it, I swear, I did." The words vomited out of his mouth with such speed and intensity Charles couldn't follow it if he wanted too. From what he gathered there was some kind of swampfolk who'd been the specific bane of Tobar. He didn't have time to sort it out.

"Is that the key to your boat?" He asked, snapping his fingers several times to get Tobar's attention. Once the traumatized ferryman was looking at him, Charles asked again, tapping the key with a finger, "Is this the key to your boat?" He repeated slowly.

Tobar nodded furiously, "Yes, yes, yesyesyesyes, this the key, I-I-IIIIIIIII….I can get us out of here," he sputtered, glancing about the room as if he expected swampfolk to come clambering out of the walls at any moment.

"Okay," Charles told him as gently as he could, "I'm getting us out of here." He helped the battered ferryman to his feet. "Now, I'm going to grab the Krivbeknih and we're going to get the hell out of here."

At the sound of the book's name Tobar shuddered but said nothing. For a moment, Charles was just going to pop it in the duffle with the rest of his stuff, but thought better of it. Retrieving an empty haversack he'd taken off one of the swampfolk, Charles snatched the book of its pedestal and placed that within the sack. After he'd put the book, still wrapped in the haversack, into his dufflebag he shook his hands nervously. He'd handled the book for mere seconds and still he felt his hands burning, heard the whispers intensify.

 _Now look what you've done. Why'd you go and doom yourself like this? Really._

Nothing bad happened, which, almost disappointed him at first. The book had been retrieved, the key found, now he just needed to get out of the cavern and bring the book to Marcella. After all, with Tobar in custody even the lure of two thousand caps wasn't enough to bring Charles back into Blackhall manor.

He took Tobar gently by the arm and began walking towards the entrance, slowly, skirting around the altar and trying really hard not to think about what sort of sadistic things had happened in this chamber over the years.

They were halfway up the path towards the river when everything went to hell.

The sounds of stomping feet, thundering down the path, accompanied by a strangely insistent tapping, wood on the ground, echoing, even above the rush of footsteps. "He's coming," Tobar murmured, "I knew there was no escape."

"That's not helpful!" Charles growled, before the mob of swampfolk came thundering around the bend, pitchforks, torches, shotguns and pistols waving. To the front of the group was a strange robed figure, hunched over like a rodent, a staff clutched in his hands. The figure pointed a pale, boney finger towards Charles. "He's stealing the book!" The figure screeched in a masculine voice, jabbing the finger again, "He'll take it away! Kill him! Kill them both!"

Shots echoed as the inbreds opened fire. A bullet ripped past Charles' shoulder, stinging and throwing a spray of blood. He pulled the trigger on his shotgun, bursting the chest of an advancing, shirtless hick. Another raised a hunting rifle and fired. That bullet struck Tobar in the throat, throwing the ferryman backward and down in a spray of blood. His limp arms tangled with Charles, pulling him down as well.

In the fumbling madness the Lone Wanderer found a fragmentation grenade on his belt and threw it towards the mob. Shrapnel and flesh flew past him, slicing and splattering against his exposed skin. His ears gave out from the deafening blast, the loud ringing of his skull the only sound he could hear. The front row of swampfolk had been blasted backward or vaporized by the blast.

Ripping the key from Tobar's now lifeless corpse, Charles dropped his shotgun and pulled Wild Bill's sidearm. He had once chance and he was going to take it.

He ran towards the mob, hoping they were dazed enough to get through. He shot one of the hicks through the forehead with a single bullet. Another he shot twice in the chest. Someone was screaming and barking orders but he couldn't hear clearly. His forth bullet split another skull and then he was through the mob, pistol in his hand, key in the other, firing his last round over his shoulder back towards the mob.

He ran until the fresh air found him and then he continued to run, pausing only long enough to reload the handgun and slam the shack door closed behind him.

* * *

 **AN: The bodies are starting to pile up, and we're getting so close to the end. Hang on tight dear readers, and keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times because there are no breaks on this train!**


	16. Together Again

The Ark and Dove burned.

Flames licked up the sides of the ancient cathedral, shattering the remaining glass and burning the punga stored within. All around him the boys were looting everything that could be looted and smashing everything that couldn't. One of his warriors dashed by with a wheelbarrow that was groaning beneath the weight of stolen punga. Dry grass was smoldering or outright blazing in areas where a swampfolk had dropped a torch or fired his weapons too enthusiastically.

Clyde watched it all without real interest. His plans had always been to remove the tribals who infested the sacred island, Ug-Qualtoth had revealed the need to him through the shaman. The incident at the boardwalk merely sped up the timetable. Even with his expectations of resistance so low the few surviving tribals put up so pathetic a fight that Clyde found no sport in it. He hadn't actually engaged in physical combat himself, preferring to direct his boys from a rear position while keeping his oversized hands clean.

It had been a slaughter, with only a few swampfolk being killed by the humans in exchange for every tribal found cowering within. The deaths sustained in the assault on the Cathedral were as drops of water out of the ocean, and Clyde paid their whimpering bodies no thought even as they bled to death around him.

Ol' Joe, his second in command, a twisted being with stringy white hair and stained blue overalls, approached him, dragging the pathetically kicking form of Jackson, leader of the tribals, behind him. Several of the boys accompanied him, each carrying their lever-action rifles proudly in the closest thing to parade-ground readiness honest swampfolk could come. Tossing Jackson at Clyde's feet like he weighed nothing more than a small sack of potatos the second said happily, "That's him Clyde, the boss of this lot! We've swept the place and killed everyone left behind. Ollie's stringing them up now, just like you wanted."

Pointing a misshapen finger towards the Ark and Dove's still standing portions of outer wall, Joe directed the chieftain's eyes to the relevant sight. Another of the boys was hanging the corpses from the wall, proudly displaying the bodies so that anyone left remaining on Point Lookout, or any uppity outsiders who came looking for trouble would know who the undisputed master of the island was. Big Clyde was that master, and he wanted everyone to know it.

Butcher was working his way throughout the bodies, taking the plumpest back to the shacks for tenderizing and preparing. A great feast would be held in honor of the victory, and of course, a sacrifice to the ever-changing one who'd made it possible. Hence, until the shaman arrived to announce which of the fallen would be sacrificed to Ug-Qualtoth none would be removed, not by Butcher or by Ollie. He would wait, as he always did, for the will of the ever-changing one to be known.

Despite the stench of death, the screams of tribals still messily dying all about him Jackson seemed removed from the physical happenings about him, as if off in his own world. He stared blankly up at the massive swampfolk, head tilted slightly off to the side, like he was looking past Clyde, rather than at him.

Clyde sneered down at the little man, so small, so frail, he was as nothing to the chieftain, nothing. He was about to reach for his weapon and end Jackson's existence once and for all when Ol' Joe pointed past him towards the trail, "Chief! One of our boys is coming up here! And he's coming in fast!"

Big Clyde turned his attention to the runner, trying to tell what had the boy so rattled. He was a scrawny lad, with a jaw jutting outward and ribs clearly visible above a sagging paunch. Globes of sweat fell from his face, plopping against the ground like raindrops during the rainy seasons.

He dashed towards his chieftain without stopping, dropping to his knee as a sign of respect when the bigger swampfolk stood before him. "Clyde," he gasped out, sucking the air back into his battered lungs as best he could while dry heaving, "I've run all the way here from the sacred caves…"

"Spit it out!" Ol' Joe crowed, shaking the smaller swampfolk by both shoulders, "What the Sam hell's so goul-dang important?"

"The shaman sent me!" That silenced the warwhoops, the hollers and Ol' Joe's insistence that there was nothing worth his time with the lad. "The Blue One! He came into the sacred caves." There was a pause, as if the scout was completely and utterly terrified of discussing what came next. "The holy book…the Blue One…He took it!"

There were howls of disbelief, screams of agony, utter disbelief and horror among the swampfolk. Clyde felt the rage boiling deep within him, stoking the hatred in his heart like a roaring fire.

"Joe, my chainsaw." He ordered his second in command without hesitation. The other swampfolk went to fetch it. He returned in mere moments carrying the massive weapon. The carbon-steel teeth were stained with blood and gore, dulling the former shine, the paint chipped off the handle from constant use. The weapon was huge, a good twenty plus pounds when fully powered up, with an empty rung attached to the top intended for running a leather strap through to help balance the weight of the unwieldy tool. Clyde had removed that strap, finding it more hindrance than help, besides, he could handle the weapon without it, and did so.

Taking the chainsaw in his massive hands, Clyde yanked the cord backward, bringing the beast to life with a terrifying roar, dark black smoke bellowed outward from the motor, smelling of burnt flesh. The vibrations shook his arm, yet the callous' and lumps prevented him from feeling the extreme pain along the limb a lesser being would have from holding such a massive tool.

Despite the fearsome display, Jackson knelt without expression, and that would be how his face stayed forever.

Swinging the massive chainsaw with one hand, Clyde sheered through the tribal leader's neck, dropping the head from his shoulders in one motion. As the body slumped to the side, Clyde turned to Ol' Joe. "Get all the boys, every single one I don't care what they're doing, I don't care where they are. You get 'em and you split 'em into war parties do you hear me? We find the stranger and we get the book back! Do it now!" He bellowed, swinging his chainsaw menacingly about, the screaming teeth cutting the air with each slice, "He can't leave this island!"

"What about Jackson?" It was an honest enquiry, and it needed an answer.

Clyde turned his back on the corpse, "Hang him."

* * *

Charles ran, clutching his duffle tightly to his chest. His breath rushed forth in hoarse gasps, his body ached, yet still he ran on. He couldn't know how many were after him, how many followed him still as he moved. They were persistent hunters, the swampfolk, and he'd taken something precious of there's, something they wanted back very badly.

He'd been moving towards the beach, pausing only long enough to reload Wild Bill's Sidearm and his lever-action rifle, ensuring that if the swampfolk caught him they wouldn't find him defenseless. The sound of the waves crashing against the beach was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard, signifying he was close to the goal, to removing this blasted thing still whispering in the back of his mind, hidden but still present. The sooner the Krivbeknih was out of his hands and destroyed the sooner he'd be able to sleep again, to board a boat heading to DC back where he belonged.

The key to Tobar's boat was still clenched tightly in his hand, he hadn't put it down during his entire flight, he was afraid too, as if the second it left his grip the key would vanish into the ether, along with his attempts to escape.

When he finally reached the beach, boots finding the brilliant white sand, nostrils smelling the salty sea air and feeling the blistering heat all throughout his vault suit, he breathed a deep sigh of relief. A quick glance over his shoulder towards the swampy inland revealed there was no one behind him. He'd successfully lost the war party in the jungle, at least he'd hoped. They'd be combing the island for him however, and thus he couldn't sit still for long.

The camp Marcella had set up wasn't far away; he'd used the forest path during his hasty retreat which had taken him past Blackhall Manor. The sight of that house again, brief though it was, had chilled him

He'd been lulled into a false sense of security by the emptiness of the beach, by the serene waters lapping against the sand and the gentle rustling of the breeze. Yet even so, with no enemy in sight, some animalistic survivor's instinct wouldn't switch off, wouldn't shut down and so, though the smell was faint and hidden among the refuse of the sea, he detected it, smoke, billowing up from the location of Marcella's camp.

He broke into a sprint, throwing the sand aside, weapon held forward and ready, hand resting gently in the lever of the rifle. The smell was soon joined by the sight of black smoke, starkly rising against the bright blue sky, the scent of burning canvas growing stronger as he approached.

Charles fell upon the missionary's camp and found it in disarray, tents ripped and gutted with blades before being lit on fire, the furniture, such as it was, scattered around the beach, chests and containers broken open, chairs and table smashed and used for kindling. Only one tent currently remained unburnt, the large center-most command tent, where Marcella had taken up refugee.

Standing in the center of the camp, holding a torch to one of the wood piles was a twisted, misshapen swampfolk, a leering grin splitting his crooked features. Charles put a trio of bullets in the swampfolk's chest, spat forth from the lever-action rifle with a righteous indignation.

Even as the local fell to the sand in a rapidly expanding pool of dark red blood, the flaps to Marcella's tent flew open and another inbred, clutching the woman's double-barrel shotgun in his bloodstained hands, came lumbering out, screeching a warcry in his reedy voice. Before the local had a chance to aim the powerful weapon Charles put a single bullet in his skull, splitting the head in two like a melon.

Stepping over the rapidly cooling corpse of the swampfolk, Charles battered his way into the tent, another bullet in the chamber. Inside a third swampfolk, a brutal looking kitchen knife clutched in his mutated fingers, hunched over the prone form a woman Charles could only assume was the missionary. Without hesitation, the Vault Dweller shot the swampfolk in the back of the head, exploding his brain outward in a burst of flesh and smoke.

Shoving his way past the falling corpse, Charles got a good look at Marcella and instantly knew she wasn't going to make it. The years of studying medicine under his father back in Vault 101 weren't necessary for him to see just how bad her condition was. The missionary had been stabbed repeatedly, the blade raked across flesh and twisted in several places to increase the suffering. She'd lost plenty of blood already, the sand beneath her damp and mattered with the continued dripping of more, her skin growing paler and paler the longer he looked at her.

Still, as the dying woman's eyes fell upon the Lone Wanderer she managed a weak smile. "I was right about you after all," she coughed violently, a splattering of blood shooting outward as she did, "That's good to know."

"Hey, try…try not to move," Charles told her, fishing around in his duffle for a Stimpak, "Everything is going to be fine."

"A lie," she smiled again, fainter, "Its intentions are kindness but we have no time for something we both know isn't true." With every ounce of strength left in her body, Marcella's hand shot outward, gabbing hold of Charles' wrist with everything left inside her. "Tell me you have the book." She looked him dead in the eye, her expression unwavering even as her own gaze watered with tears of pain, "Tell me!"  
"It's right here," Charles patted the duffle, "I've got it."

"Good." She coughed again, her grip weakening significantly, "Take that book far away from here, away from Obadiah and the swampfolk. They cannot be allowed to possess it any longer. Understand me?" By way of response he nodded grimly, intent on letting her finish whatever business was holding her to this earth. "In the Capital Wasteland, there is a place called Dunwich, beneath its foundations lies a darkness, a place of shadow. Therein you'll find an obelisk, press the book to that twisted stone and it will be destroyed. Do you understand me?"

 _I don't know where this Dunwich is, I'm not sure I even believe her. But I heard those whispers, I saw the sacrifices, if nothing else I have to try, just in case she's right._

"Yes."

"Good." Marcella's eyes closed. "Dear God, Heavenly Father," she gasped out under her breath, "I am sorry for all of my sins, into your hands I give up my spirit." With that her head went limp and with one last shudder the missionary died.

Charles found, to his great surprise, he was crying.

* * *

The runner reached Big Clyde with a speed that was born of hate, fear, and loathing, all words that could describe the swampfolk's feelings regarding the Blue One. The chief was still standing in the remains of The Ark and Dove, chainsaw held tightly in his grip, dull eyes gazing intently into the smoldering remains of the ancient cathedral. A deathly silence fell over the remains of the tribal's former home now turned to their tomb.

The runner met the gaze of Ol' Joe, asking to be waved forward. The second in command didn't hesitate, directing the younger swampfolk to speak towards Clyde. Dropping to a knee before the chieftain, the smaller local spoke, "Boss, I found him."

Clyde turned slowly away from the fires burning into embers in the darkness and met the gaze of the kneeling messenger. "Speak, quickly."

"He's at the camp the missionary created on the beach. You were right, the Blue One rushed right there with our sacred book. He killed the boys you sent to kill the woman, but not before they got her. If we move quick we can catch him before he leaves."

"Is he alone?"

"Yes boss."

Clyde paused, "It doesn't matter. I'm not underestimating the Blue One again." He waved for the runner to move, "Go and find everyone, gather all the warriors and send them to the beach." The massive leader of the swampfolk turned to face Ol' Joe, "Get my wargear, I want this outsider to know exactly who he's messing with."

* * *

It took him far too long to build the funeral pyre. Images of Marguerite burning away in the cave filled his mind, refusing to let him rest until he gave Marcella the send off she deserved. The pile of wood and canvas stood proudly, the missionary laid gently across the top, hands folded serenely across her chest.

Despite the ghastly wounds Marcella had received her expression was one of peace, tranquility, a subtle confidence that all would be well. She believed in him, believed he could accomplish the task.

 _I won't let you down._

The Krivbeknih felt like a ton of bricks, hanging against his body with the full weight of responsibility taking on Herculean portions. Still, the old fire was back in his soul, his eyes bright, hands steady. He'd find this Dunwich, the hidden obelisk and ensure the Krivbeknih was never used by anyone for whatever dark purpose it was created.

Striding towards the blazing funeral pyre with his newfound confidence Charles spoke the words with a steady, unwavering voice, "The Lord giveth and taketh away. Dust we are made, dust we return, until He returns to call us to Him. Marcella dedicated her life as a servant of the Lord. She'd done great evil in her past and sought to make amends." He shook his head, "Haven't we all done great evil? I have. My hands are bloody, my past is dark, yet clawing towards redemption is all I can do, she could do, any of us can do." The open air listened intently at his sermon, his words striking a cord with all listeners present, himself being the only one.

"We're not perfect, God saw it fit to be this way, to leave us struggling with our own imperfections, Marcella did that, she struggled forward and she earned that redemption we all seek, but not all manage to find." He patted the side of his duffle, still feeling the black weight of the unholy book weighing him down, "I'll finish what you started, I will take the Krivbeknih far from Point Lookout and destroy it, you have my word."

The island didn't offer up any sort of response and neither did the dead, yet somehow he felt watched, observed, as if some kind of outside force had recognized his actions and approved.

He stood watching the pyre as the sun went down, ready to leave and yet, somehow, unwilling to do so. The island wouldn't let him go, but he wanted nothing more than to leave it. He'd about mustered up the courage necessary to move, when he heard a rustling in the foliage behind him where the sand of the beach met the forests. Spinning about and dropping to his knee, Charles had the fallen missionary's double-barrel shotgun in his hands aimed towards whatever might be scampering towards him. He expected a molerat, or mirelurk. What he saw wasn't expected in his wildest dreams.

Bounding out from the darkness of Point Lookout, big tongue hanging limply, a goofy grin splitting his face asunder, barking happily at the sight of his master, was Dogmeat.

"Boy?" He asked, dumbfounded. "Is that really you?" Dropping his weapon he held his hands out, "How'd you get here?"  
The dog barked happily, bounding across the sand and leaping into his owner's arms. Licking Charles' bearded face, the dog continued barking hopping up and down, front paws trying to get a grip on Charles' shoulders and failing due to over exuberance. Grabbing the dog back the Lone Wanderer nuzzled his face against Dogmeat's, "I missed you so much boy." Hugging the dog with both arms, the man asked again, "But how'd you get here? Are you another hallucination?"

"Disgusting," A gravelly voice from the shadows told him with mock severity, "You two should get a room or something." The Lone Wander looked towards the sound of the speaker and saw the ghoul he fully expected from the tone. Charon leaned against the nearest tree, fleshless arms crossed, shotgun resting on his back. "What'll people think if they see the mighty Lone Wanderer gallivanting with his dog." The ghoul clicked his tongue, "Shame."

"Charon?" He looked up from Dogmeat, standing up and approaching the bodyguard, "Why? How? But?" He paused, mind racing as he struggled to determine exactly what was happening, "I told you to stay in DC."

The massive ghoul shrugged his shoulders, "You needed rescuing. So I referred to one of the clauses within the contract. Your life was the utmost priority."

"There's no such clause…" Charles noted, referring back to the piece of paper that was nothing more than a few scribbled lines of gibberish, certainly without any clauses or actual regulations. "But you came anyway…"

"That's what friends do, boss." Charon winked a yellowed eye, "I couldn't let anything hurt you. Not when I was given such an eloquent speech."

 _Speech?  
_ "You came for me…" Charles was so humbled, so touched by his friend's loyalty, moving beyond the bonds of bureaucracy and legalism that he risked everything, going against a direct order from the holder of his contract, for the sake of that holder's life.

"I'm going to do something for you I should have done a long time ago," The Lone Wanderer stated after some thought, "Assuming it's what you want." Reaching into a belt pouch on his armored vault suit Charles withdrew a crumpled piece of paper, "Charon, if you want this, I'll tear up this contract, right here, right now, and let you go free."

The ghoul shrugged, "It's just a paper. I'll follow you into hell and back with or without it. You just say the word boss."

The tears started leaking from his eyes at that, the display of friendship he didn't deserve after everything he'd done to his friends, because of the unshakable loyalty of Charon. Taking the page in both hands, he tore it in half with one sharp twist. The two halves fell to the sands beneath the feet of both men, blowing away into the sea with the wind.

"I didn't come alone." The ghoul said, his face oddly devoid of emotion, as if the significance of what had just happened meant nothing to him. He was simply calm, collected, free from all doubt.

"Who brought you?"  
"We did." Jericho's voice came across the beach, halfway sheepish, halfway gravelly and rough, as if the ex-raider didn't want everyone to know just how happy he was to see Charles remained in one piece.

Beside the bandit stood Donavan, Sergeant RL-3 and…Herbert Dashwood? The Lone Wanderer rubbed his eyes with both hands and looked again. "Daring?" He spoke the name as a whisper, "I thought they'd killed you. The ghouls…I mean…I'm so sorry, when they moved into Tenpenny Towers I assumed my arrangement would last. I never meant for any of this to happen and when Roy told me everyone was dead…"

"Hush now," Daring responded with a tone that seemed unnecessarily bright considering the subject mater, "The actions of Roy Phillips are on his head alone, not yours. Alistair was a bigoted ass and I'm not crying any tears on his grave, but what Roy did was beyond wrong and he'll suffer for it, in this life or the next." Herbert shook his head, removing his fedora as a sign of respect for the deceased. "I only wish I could have gotten some of them out with me." Jericho, Donavan and Sarge stood by quietly, in a similar fashion as they had during Charon's dialogue, understanding that some business that caused him to run away had to be dealt with before Charles could come home.

"How'd you survive?" The Lone Wanderer asked quietly, "When everyone else didn't."

"Bessie Lynn." That name struck a chord, Roy's tender girlfriend, shy insecure, not all that bright, the idea of her going against Roy's actions stunned him. "Poor girl, she had no idea that Roy didn't have plans for a peaceful resolution and by the time she found out it was almost too late. Because I'd always been kind to ghouls, unless of course a particular ghoul was an ornery son of a bitch, she determined I didn't deserve to die. So she snuck up to my room 'killed me' and dumped my 'carcass' down the garbage shoot." The old adventurer gently prodded his ribs with a smile, "Was murder on the old bones, let me tell you, but I'd take that over actually getting murdered any day. Made my way to Underworld and was living there comfortably until this merry band decided you were worth the trouble, and I agree." He smiled warmly once more before clapping Charles on the back, "Damn good to see you in one peace old boy."

"I actually agree with this stuck up windbag for once," Jericho growled, moving towards the Lone Wanderer as well, "I'm uh….how do I put this?" He rubbed his balding head sheepishly, kicking at the sand embarrassed, "I'm sorry how things ended back in DC. I should have gone with you into Vault 101 and I shouldn't have said what I said." Fidgeting around for a cigarette, Jericho looked down so he wouldn't have to meet Charles' gaze, "Considering the shit you were dealing with…"

"I'm sorry for what I said too." Charles admitted, grabbing Jericho on the shoulder and looking his friend in the eye, "You've always been there for me, whether you agreed or not, I should have trusted your judgment. 101 was a shitshow…that's partially why I ended out here." He gestured to the surrounding island, "Grief coupled with bad choices."

"I'm glad you're still in one piece commander!" The Mr. Gutsy interrupted enthusiastically, spinning his sawblade with glee, "I almost thought those goddamned red commie bastards had got you! But then I remembered, Charles is too damn tough for any slimy red to put him down! Still, I thought you might be stuck somewhere and need a lift home."

"I wouldn't say no to one!" He admitted, "Sarge, I want to go home now. I'm sick of this place." He turned to Herbert, "We have to get back to grab Nadine, she's someone I found I the island, a friend, and she's the only one I made on Point Lookout who's still alive. I can't leave without her."

 _Desmond can take care of himself, old bastard. Besides, I don't think friends is the right term for that relationship._

"We met Nadine," Donavan stated, "She's fine. We aren't going to leave her behind, trust me."  
It was the first words the tech expert had said aloud and Charles almost forgot he was there until the mercenary spoke. "Donavan…" The Lone Wanderer turned to address him, "I knew we were friendly…but I didn't think we were close enough for you to come all this way for me…Thank you." The words were honest, genuine, Charles was legitimately shocked.

"We are friends," the mercenary began, "So don't take this the wrong way, but I didn't come for you. I came because of her." The second Donavan said her Charles knew who the techie was referring too, yet when he saw her coming out of the swamp she took his breath away.

Riley of Riley's Rangers, orange hair brilliantly shining against the darkness, resembling the flames of the pyre in shade, her features, plain but kind, freckles visible despite the darkness, eyes soft, slender frame coiled and ready to strike.

She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He couldn't believe she was there, standing on the beach before him but somehow, there she was. "Riley…" He managed to mumble the word out, standing sheepishly there, realizing just how paltry anything he might possibly say would be. After what he'd put her through words seemed so utterly incompetent.

"Chuck…" She looked him in the eye, her expression a mixture of pain and relief. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again…" Before he could answer she slapped him across the face, hard. The blow knocked his head to the side, stinging his bearded cheeks.

 _I suppose I deserved that._

"That's for leaving without telling me, dumbass! Why didn't you come to me for help? That's what friends are for! I know you wanted to lose yourself sure, but I could have found tons of places throughout the Capital Wasteland where you could have done that without almost dying on me! And…And…" Her words sputtered out, the woman suddenly unable to articulate exactly what she was feeling.

Then she leaned forward and kissed him.

He kissed her back, eyes closed as he wrapped his arms around her armored shoulders and kissed her with all the passion and longing his time on Point Lookout had made him realize was inside him the entire time. "I missed you Riley," he told her at long last when they finally stopped for air, "And I'm sorry for everything I put you through. I'm sorry for running away without telling you, I'm sorry for dragging you all out to this haunted pile of garbage the locals call an island. Riley, I'm sorry for taking so long to realize how I feel, and I'm sorry that it took this kind of situation for me to realize it."

"It's not all you," Riley told him, cupping his rough cheek with a hand, "I had you in front of my face the whole time and never saw it. I wasn't there for you when Purity fell. I didn't know about your father until it was long over…Chuck…" She hugged him tightly, "But I'll be there for you when the time comes to take it back." The fire he loved so burned in Riley's eyes that determination that drew him to the mercenary captain was clear for everyone to see.

"I'd like that very much."

"Look," Jericho growled, butting into the conversation with his weapon drawn, "I think this is all very sweet and touching, don't get me wrong, but the guy who brought us here doesn't seem to me like the kind who goes above and beyond. We need to get back to the vertibird and get the hell out of here before he leaves our asses behind!" The smoke trailing from the ex-raider's cigarette sank to the ground, disappearing into the darkness of the falling night.

"He's right," Donavan added, drawing his own assault rifle, "Though I wouldn't exactly phrase it like that, but we really need to get out of here." The XO looked Charles up and down methodically, "Besides, he's suffering from plenty of ailments I can treat if we get back to the 'Bird. An adictol and some antibiotics should clean that right up."

"We've got a hike ahead of us!" Dashwood announced in a tone far too chipper for the comment, gesturing to the other side of the island with his wrinkly thumb, "Shall we get to it?"

Then Dogmeat started growling. The dog hunched forward, lips pulled back in a snarl, growling and snarling at something no one else could see. The hairs on the back of Charles' neck began to itch furiously, the roof of his mouth suddenly boneyard dry.

That's when they all heard the drums.

A loud, booming, methodical drumming echoed throughout the island, furious, tribal sounding rhythms that held the veneer of humanity, but no human mind could have composed the dark melodies that rumbled like thunder across the beach. A glowing light, like dozens of torches made their way down the sand towards them, that low, menacing drumming accompanying the advancing light.

Gazing through Infiltrator's scope, Riley took a closer look at the onrushing mob. "Uh, heads up," she announced in a tone that suggested barely contained panic, "We've got a crowd of enraged locals heading this way, and they don't look like they're going to be satisfied until our boy Chucky here is dead." She glanced towards him with a protective glance.

"What'd you do to piss the locals off so much, boss?" Charon asked with a slightly smug tinge in his tone suggesting he was proud of Charles for pulling it off.

"I kinda uh…killed a bunch of them and stole their holy book."

Dashwood laughed aloud, "Now there's a story that GNR is going to want on the radio, I can promise you that!" He actually clapped his hands together giddily before drawing the bushmaster from his back and slapping that assault rifle's safety to off, "Oh well done lad."

"Everybody pull back! We need to make our way to Pilgrim's Landing! We can't fight them here!" Riley ordered, waving for the rag-tag company to fall back to far better ground.  
"I don't think we can fight them anywhere," Jericho noted acidicly, glancing towards the band of swampfolk increasing in size and scope even as the little band of misfits stood alone, "There's a hell of a lot of them."

"Run!" Riley commanded again, waving the band to make there way back into the swamps and cross the island, "Make a run for it! We'll fight as we go!"

Against his better judgment Charles paused and looked into the onrushing hoard, a few fired wildly but were far out of range, their weapons discharging ineffectively into the air. Leading the pack was the hunched over, cloaked figure the Lone Wanderer recognized from the cave, pointing and gibbering angrily in his direction.

Beside the shaman was a massive swampfolk, a huge horrifying thing wielding a chainsaw almost as large as Dogmeat, the whirring of its teeth somehow louder than the drums carried by members of the war party. Along the chief's back was a long cape, crafted from shell and fur, rattling as he moved from the bones knitted into its massive length. Yet even the chainsaw paled in comparison to the utter horror of the beast's face. Covering its distorted features was a mask, bulging and twisted as it attempt to cover the various growth's and boils that all swampfolk seemed to posses. The mask, such as it was, was crafted entirely from human flesh to make it look like, and indeed in one sense actually was, as if the chief were wearing the face of his enemy as his own, a face that looked suspiciously like Jackson's.

Charles and the chief's eyes met for one moment, a burst of hatred, destiny and danger before Charles turned and fled into the swamp after his friends, ducking only long enough to avoid the burst of plasma fire Sarge spat outward to cover the retreat.

Still, the drums thundered on, chasing them as hungrily as the swampfolk did.

* * *

 **AN: What a ride eh? We're almost done! Hang on tight for the stunning conclusion of Broken Lookout, as always, thank you for reading, reviewing and supporting this work, I couldn't have done it without you!**


	17. This Island Ain't Big Enough

The branches of an overhanging tree right next to Charles' head, exploded in a burst of fire and wood as an overeager swampfolk took a potshot with a crude homemade grenade launcher. The firebomb launched outward by the handcrafted device thankfully lacked the destructive power of an actual grenade; otherwise the Lone Wanderer wouldn't have survived the near miss. Still, the splinters across his face stung like hell.

To his front, Jericho halted his rush to turn, prepped a fragmentation grenade of his own and threw it towards the mob making its way steadily towards them. The flying shrapnel killed or incapacitated several of the locals leading the charge, but still more thundered onward grinding their fallen cousins underfoot without hesitation or pity.

Charles brought the butt of his rifle to his shoulder, firing the weapon as fast as the lever would drop until the gun was empty. At least two swampfolk fell dead from the attack, but it was like trying to scoop up the ocean with a drinking glass. Reloading the weapon as he moved, Charles passed Jericho, who took up the rear of the retreating party emptying his Chinese assault rifle into the steadily advancing hoard. When his clip ran dry Daring Dashwood was there with his Bushmaster, the weapon firing in semi-automatic mode, each shot seeming to drop one of the attacking swampfolk.

Despite Dashwood's advanced age he seemed to be the best suited for the situation, hands steady, aim accurate, a slight smile on his face. "It's damn good to be alive!" He shouted jubilantly, firing the weapon and slaying another one of the attacking inbreds.

As the local collapsed in a heap, a solitary bullet in his forehead leaking blood and fluid thanks to the well placed shot, Charles saw Jericho shake his head and growl something under his breath about, "Hopped up old farts who are just showing off at this point so just shoot me now."

They'd been running for time uncounting, hoping and praying that Dogmeat was leading the band down the correct path as the swampfolk chased them, drums continuing to pound away and shake the ground. Their little band of island invaders had so far managed to keep ahead of the swampfolk thanks to their superior combat techniques and equipment but it was a losing battle. Every moment the lead swampfolk grew closer, their shots more accurate. All the while Big Clyde, his leering, twisted face remained close to the front, though smart enough to keep a few boys before him at all times.

One particularly exuberant swampfolk broke into a full on dash, likely inspired by some chem or another, sprinting towards the band with an axe waving madly above his head. He was mere steps away from Jericho when a well placed burst from Riley's Infiltrator put him down. It was close, too close, a dire warning that if things didn't change they'd not survive long enough to reach Pilgrim's Landing. Simply running wasn't enough.

Fortunately, the desperate mind can concoct plenty of ideas when life is on the line.

"Sarge!" The Vault Dweller howled to the Mr. Gutsy, waving him towards the back as Jericho threw a second grenade more out of fear than tactical advantage. "Sarge get back here I need you!" The Mr. Gutsy didn't hesitate, floating towards Charles' position as fast as his thruster could take him, firing the plasma attachment as he did. Shoving Jericho forward, Charles screamed at the bandit, "Just go! Trust me!" The ex-raider didn't hesitate, putting as much extra speed as he could into his flight, huffing and puffing as the extra breath left his frame. The swampfolk didn't slow, the swampfolk didn't hesitate, they were a force of nature, one onrushing wave, a storm.

"How much fuel is left in you flamethrower?" Charles ask RL-3, firing his rifle at the nearest inbred local as he did. The bullet struck the shirtless swampfolk in the leg, shattering the bone and dropping him to the ground.

"Plenty!" The robot soldier roared with glee, waving the mentioned attachment about, "But my scanners indicate the surrounding area is dry, and full of sulfuric gasses. Bad idea to use this kind of weapon here, I'm telling you."

"Doesn't matter," Charles pressed on, continuing to fire his lever-action rifle as quickly as he could, "I need a wall of fire between us and them to buy time, can you do that? And now?"

"Aye sir!" Sarge floated forward the equivalent of a few steps and aimed the weapon to the ground, "Emptying the tank now sir!" The gout of flame that exploded outward was, in its own way, magnificent in its destruction. The heat was immense, the rotting foliage on the ground catching fire, vines along the trees working upward like webs of flame.

The first few swampfolk couldn't slow down and barreled into the newly created wall of fire, bodies burning and blackened, clothes incinerating, screaming as their flesh melted away to nothing. "That won't buy us much time, let's go!" Charles yelled, rushing towards the rest of the band who'd already made some serious progress away from them.

For one brief moment, Charles glanced through the fire and saw Clyde, standing furious on the other side of his makeshift barrier, waiting for it to fall, waiting for the opportunity to come through and rip the interloper to shreds.

Charles fled the scene.

* * *

"Chief! They're getting away!" Ol' Joe howled, firing his hunting rifle at the newly created flame barrier as if that would somehow halt its growth across the swamp. The foolish invaders must be truly desperate if they'd go to such risky lengths as setting an uncontrolled blaze.

"We've got to catch them!" Another one of his warriors cried out in panic, fidgeting with the bolt attached to his crossbow, "If we lose them they'll get away with the book!"

"Everyone shut up!" Clyde roared, cutting off the panicking murmurings before they could spread further and infest the morale of his boys. "It doesn't matter! We know where they're going! We saw the flying machine! We saw the boat!" He turned to his second, hand still firmly gripping the handle of his chainsaw, "Joe! Taking a bunch of our strongest boys and get to the flying machine, stop the Blue One and his friends from getting there! Willie get to the boat, stop them no matter which way they go!" He glared towards the flames, as if the sheer force of his will would be enough to reduce it. "I'll wait here with the bulk of the band until the fire dies down. You slow 'em down, we'll kill 'em." He raised the chainsaw above his head, powering up the weapon and letting the teeth wail out their deadly song, "Let's gut 'em all boys! Let's show 'em why they never should have come to Point Lookout!"

The other swampfolk screamed and wailed, echoing the battle cry for all to hear. Clyde smiled, fire or no fire, the Blue One wouldn't be leaving the island alive.

* * *

Tucker had drawn a fresh cigar out of the leather carrying case on his belt, preparing to ignite it with his lighter when he heard the shooting, when he heard the drums, when he heard the foliage around him beginning to rumble. Molly's head snapped around wildly, rapidly checking the razor-wire and sandbag fortifications she'd constructed, MP-40 drawn and ready. The steady almost gentle hum of the turrets increased dramatically in volume as their targeting systems came online.

Dropping the cigar to the ground below, the Gunner reached for the 10 Millimeter pistol on his waist double-checking that the clip was locked and loaded. A visual scanning of the tree line revealed nothing, but the rustling continued, growing louder and bolder.

"The hell is that?" Molly growled, visible eyes showing extreme nervousness, the barrel of her submachine gun shaking in the air as she looked about.

"I have no idea…" He was grinding his teeth, eyes squinting behind his sunglasses as he glanced through the surrounding area for the unknown assailant. The mercenary's trained ears heard it, even if he didn't see the object incoming, the telltale sizzle of a blasting cord burning down. "Dynamite! Get down!" He roared, throwing himself towards the comforting metal of Vera's outer haul.

However, he wasn't the target of the explosive attack, as the nearest turret burst like an overripe melon flinging metal and sparks in all directions. Immediately the other remaining turrets began firing into the woods, spitting out bullets as fast as their chambers would allow. Molly got to her feet, bandana and helmet eschew, firing her MP-40 towards the trees in unison.

"Who the hell's attacking us?" Tucker roared, stumbling to his feet and making his way over to his corporal, "Molly do you have a visual?" Bullets began whizzing past him or striking the nearby sandbags. As another turret exploded in a burst of smoke and flying circuitry the Gunner sent a few bullets towards the treeline trying desperately to hit something but unsure of his success. A few Molotov cocktails exploded around the parameter of their defenses thrown by whoever was attacking their position.

"I've got no idea!" Molly shouted back holding down the trigger on her MP-40 until the clip went dry, "Local hospitality sucks on this island!" She was in the process of reloading when a bullet took her right in the shoulder. With a squeal of pain the Gunner corporal fell, bandana eschew weapon falling from her hands, "Goddamnit! Those sons of bitches got me!"

Tucker hurled a plasma grenade towards the trees as yet another one of his defense turrets exploded. "Get on the 'Bird! Now!" Molly scrambled to her feet, dragging the submachine gun behind her, squeezing her shoulder while desperately attempting to halt the spurting flow of blood. As the woman scrambled onto the metal vehicle the Gunner sergeant saw the treeline burst aside and watched in abject horror as a swarm of misshapen men dressed in plaids and overalls came charging towards him firing and screaming.

The sole surviving turret opened fire, spitting bullets towards the mob as fast as it could. Yet even as a few of the swampfolk fell their brothers directed all their fire towards that last turret, shattering it and leaving Tucker alone. The Gunner fired his 10 millimeter towards the mob, actually dropping one of the attackers in a tangle of limbs and fallen weapons. However, the mob continued to rush onward as if the deaths of several friends were a moderate inconvenience. Rather than reload the pistol, Tucker drew the combat rifle from his back, set it to semi-automatic and began firing into the mob of swampfolk, backing slowly up towards Vera as he did.

Bullets whizzed past his head, one actually passing by his face close enough to draw blood. Leaping up onto the Vertibird clutching his combat rifle as he did so, Tucker made his way towards the pilot's seat, "Molly, get on the gun! You need to slow these buggers down while I get us in the air!"

 _I know what I promised, but I can't get Dashwood off this island if I'm goddamn dead now can I?_

Even so, it felt in his gut like failure.

* * *

Somehow, one of the swampfolk managed to clamber around the blaze and find a good spot in a tree. The inbred hick was armed with an ancient flintlock musket, which proved fortunate for Donavan. The tree-based sniper fired the primitive weapon with pinpoint accuracy striking the tech dead center in the chest. Though the lead musket ball didn't manage to penetrate the combat armor he wore it still knocked the man to the ground, bruising his body and driving the wind from his lungs.

Charles responded to the attack by raising his double-barrel shotgun and pulling both triggers. The swampfolk squealed as it fell from its perch, chest exploded outward in a shower of gore.

Riley dashed over to her fallen XO. "Donavan? Are you alright?" She howled, falling to her knees beside her friend. Charles and Jericho took up the rear, scanning vigilantly for any swampfolk making their way up the path around the fire, which was still blazing away judging from the belching cloud of thick, black smoke making its way through the tangled jungle overgrowth. A few bullets rang out, fired wildly towards the fleeing party by the few swampfolk who'd managed to move around the wildfire.

Jericho returned fire with enthusiasm, though little effect. The dark smoke was billowing about and the tangle of trees made visual perception difficult. If any of the 5.56 rounds connected with the locals the ex-raider had no idea.

Charles, for his part, satisfied himself by firing a double barreled volley from Marguerite's shotgun into the darkness and hoping the echoing sound discouraged following them too closely. Almost in response, Charon's shotgun boomed from towards the front of the band, a retort to whatever swampfolk had managed his way that far up.

Donavan tapped the four-leaf clover painted on his helmet, gasping air into his battered lungs, "I'm okay!" He managed to pant out, scrambling to his feet without grace, "I'm okay! Just winded me!" He scrambled to his feet, desperately attempting to find some air while attempting to jimmy the lead ball buried in his chest plate out.

"Alright then!" Riley yelled, loudly enough to be heard over the bursting guns and the crackling flames of the rolling wildfire, "Let's get moving! We've got a long way to go yet!" The woman began shuffling upward through the swamps again, trying to catch Dashwood who'd made his way further ahead of the group, sweeping the path for any lingering swampfolk. The locals had proven incredibly adept at worming their way where they weren't wanted.

Charles and Jericho fell back, the bandit reloading his Chinese assault rifle as he went while the Lone Wanderer sent another burst of shotgun fire ineffectively down towards the strangling swampfolk who'd made their way through or around the flames, noting despondently that there appeared a few more than the last time he'd seen them.

He turned back up the path, moving as quickly as he dared towards Pilgrim's Landing while still keeping his gaze on the path to avoid tripping. A tree branch above his head exploded as a lucky bullet struck it, splitters raining down unpleasantly along the brim of his cap and down his neck.

 _That was close._

Thanking his lucky stars that his head was still attached to his shoulders and in one piece, Charles hustled on. A screaming, feral howling drew his attention towards the left of the path as a thin, pale swampfolk came stumbling out of the darkness, rusty cleaver in hand. As soon as the local's eyes fell upon the man he rushed towards him, murder obvious in his intent. Yet the swampfolk never had the chance at damage as a burst of plasma fire from Sarge, the Mr. Gutsy not even bothering to aim as he went by, burned through the local's chest and dropped him back into the bog.

For a moment, Charles was sure he was home free. They were nearing the edge of the boggy, forested region, close to the coastline. They'd reach Pilgrim's Landing without problem, and then they'd escape Point Lookout in the same way his friends had come.

But then he heard Dogmeat howling from the front of the group. The faithful mutt had been leading the little band, his nose more than capable of smelling out the way towards home. Yet that bloodcurdling howl terrified Charles, spurring the Lone Wanderer to rush to the front of the group, passing by Jericho, Charon and even Riley in his desperate attempt to find the dog.

Bursting through the tree line towards the open field that overlooked Pilgrim's Landing Charles saw a horrifying sight. The space that had normally been empty was a mess of smoldering tall grass, broken machine parts, overturned sandbags and mulling bands of armed, angry, swampfolk. Dogmeat was cowering in the grass by the tree line, hiding his muzzle beneath his paws while whimpering pathetically in fear.

Kneeling beside the dog, Bushman in hand, Dashwood was chewing his beard nervously, eyes darting from side to side. "Damn it!" He hissed underneath his breath, looking down the barrel of his assault rifle towards the field as if the mere act of willpower would bring back whatever he was missing. "That bastard!" He shook his head.

Thankfully, the decently sized mob in the field hadn't noticed the crouching duo near the trees, currently the only positive thing about the entire situation. More and more swampfolk would be working their way up the paths around the wildfire and soon Charles and company would be crushed between the two forces.

"There was supposed to be a vertibird here!" Dashing cursed, looking towards Charles in an attempt to explain his bout of frustration and fear. "That damn Gunner must have jumped ship!"

"Or judging from the size of that raiding party and all the mechanical damage," Charles gestured towards the smoldering remains of what had appeared to once have been turrets and the shattered razor wire line, "They could have been forced out. There doesn't seem to be any limit to these swampfolk."

"Our ride's gone?" Riley asked, her tone suggesting disbelief and horror while trying to bury that obvious fear from the others. "How the hell are we getting out of here?"

As the remainder of the party arrived, Charles took over, mind racing like a computer, "If we can make our way down to Pilgrim's Landing, we can take the boat." He patted the key resting against his chest, thankfully still in his possession, "But we need to get around this group, and fast, because that fire isn't going to hold them for long."

"It's not going to hold them at all," Jericho cut in, incredibly unhelpfully and unfortunately, "Before we ran up here I saw more and more of the buggers coming through. Either the fire died down on its own or it was beaten back by the locals because they're streaming up this way. I figure we've got a handful of minutes before they're on top of us." The ex-raider visibly shuddered, "It's this damn island! It's fighting us!"

The band was spooked, desperate, waiting between a rock and a hard place. Charles knelt in the grass, brain turning in an attempt to find the escape, find the few minutes of security it would take to make their way down to the shattered remains of their sanctuary town and the sweet escape of the _Duchess Gambit_ , but for the life of him, Charles had no idea what he could do to make that time happen.

Fortunately for the Lone Wanderer it seemed someone else was willing to provide it for him.

Screaming into the air above the field was Vera, flopping haphazardly in the air as the pilot tried his best to keep the vertibird steady for the gunner, said gunner was leaning heavily against the side-mounted machine gun, spitting forth death and destruction as the gun thundered. The mob of swampfolk fell back, as several were cut to ribbons by the sheer volley of bullets from the flying machine. Even so, the leader, an ancient looking local in overalls, directed his boys to return fire, which they did with limited success, the varying small arms fire peppering along the vertibird with little effect.

"MOVE!" Charles roared, sensing this was the only chance they would get to reach the boat before the other swampfolk fell upon them. For their parts, everyone else seemed to agree.

He rose in one action, breaking into a mad dash for the standing buildings of Pilgrim's Landing. Taking aim with the double-barrel shotgun as he ran, Charles shot the nearest swampfolk in the back. The close range and wide volley easily mitigated the shaking of his weapon from the movement and the inbred fell forward, back blown open, dying as he hit the grass.

In the chaos of the moment the rest of the war party didn't seem to notice.

He was running now, full tilt, the others right behind him, Dogmeat to the front bounding on all fours, the world around him seeming to slow to a crawl. For one shining glorious moment he thought they might actually make it, they might actually escape.

Then the bullet struck Dashwood in the knee.

The old man screamed as he went down, tangled in his sweater and rifle, bleeding profusely from the wound. Jericho bent down to grab him and move forward, but his progress was painfully slowed. Even as Donavan took the elder adventurer by the other arm and the two men began walking him it was too slow. The shot had rung out from the treeline, the other band was here.

The vertibird continued to swerve as best it could, but the small arms was intensifying and the machine-gunner was loosing vigor, trying her hardest to maintain the same output of death but loosing to much blood to continue at that pace.

Charles never did learn where the leader of that particular party managed to get his hands on an actual grenade launcher but as the weapon was raised and fired, the grenade soaring towards the vertibird, he knew the situation was dire. Whoever had piloted the craft was exceptional because, despite the closeness of the shot and limited reaction time he managed to move the 'bird away from the worst of the blast. But the shrapnel still pattered against the fuselage and rotary blades, forcing the craft away from the warband. The gunner in the back tried her hardest to kill the swampfolk before another grenade but she was disoriented and thrown off her aim by the sudden movements the pilot had to make, both in response to the first grenade, and the inevitable follow up.

The 'bird dropped from the sky, falling back in an attempt to avoid the real risk of being shot down, leaving the badly battered, but still very threatening band of swampfolk who stood between the ragtag band, who now included wounded, and escape. Yet it was the threat from behind that would prove the ultimate danger.

Striding out of the forest, bold as brass, with the rest of the swampfolk behind him, was the warboss. His cape flapping in the breeze, the skin mask a horrifying mockery of life, the whirring of his chainsaw louder than the vertibird had been, and he was moving towards Dashwood and his helpers with menacing intent. The rest of the swampfolk seemed frozen as if cowed by the awesome presence of their leader. It seemed the glory of the first kill belonged to Big Clyde alone.

Charles didn't think, didn't hesitate. He saw the trio of men hobbling away from the chainsaw wielding swampfolk as fast as they could, even Jericho refusing to let Daring fall. The Vault Dweller dashed back towards Clyde, running past his injured friends, firing the shotgun as he did. Clyde raised one massive deformed arm as a shield, absorbing the impact from both 12 gauge shells like another would dust. The shells impacted against the arm, throwing aside some blood and popping a few boils but otherwise seeming ineffective. The double-barrel fell from Charles' hands, drawing the sawed-off while continuing his mad rush towards Clyde, screaming out a rebel yell empowered by the ghosts of the Confederacy whose symbol he wore on his brim he fired a burst from the sawed off with similar effect, the big swampfolk shrugging it off like rain, but it got his attention.

"Face me!" Charles howled, popping open the sawed-off to reload both chambers, "Face me alone! Unless the chosen of Ug-Qualtoth is unworthy of the title?" The Lone Wander had no idea what he was saying, no idea if this massive chief was that chosen or even if he was using Ug-Qualtoth's name properly, but this big fellow seemed like the kind for duels and if he could keep the other swampfolk at bay that would be a plus.

Whatever or whoever Ug-Qualtoth was, invoking his name seemed to get the desired reaction because Clyde turned to face his war party, "All of you boys stay outta this! The Blue One is mine to kill! For the glory of the ever-changing one!" Raising the chainsaw above his head and buzzing the weapon fearsomely the vaguely human shaped mountain moved towards him.

Without really expecting success, Charles fired the sawed-off. The shells grazed the massive shield arm, some shrapnel splattering against the underbelly in a way that caused visible pain to the beast, without slowing him however.

Clyde swung the weapon downward deceptively fast, the blades angled sharply diagonally so that Charles only just rolled out of the way, losing his sawed-off as he went. The teeth sheered through the wood and steel stock and barrel without slowing, breaking the weapon beyond repair. Still, better it than his head.

Drawing Wild Bill's sidearm as he rose, Charles tried to snap off a quick shot towards the lumped, misshapen head resting atop the mountain of torso but once again the creature proved deceptively fast, snapping out the empty hand with palm open. The impact against his own hand was almost equivalent of a power fist and it took every ounce of willpower to maintain his grip on the pistol as the chief struck him. The first shot from the revolver flew off into the crowd, striking one of the watching swampfolk, yet none of his brethren seemed to care.

Clyde stabbed outward with the chainsaw, trying to punch the whirring teeth clean through Charles' chest but the Lone Wanderer managed to wiggle to the side, hearing the teeth far too close for his comfort. Only instinct saved his nose, as he scuffled back further, just avoiding the savage upswing launched by the mutated beast.

Firing his pistol as he moved, Charles managed to score a hit with his second bullet, the .32 round sinking into the chief's sagging paunch. A burst of blood and a howl of pain was his meager reward as the bullet disappeared into the fat and Clyde came at him again, swinging the weapon in both hands from overhead. The chainsaw cut a deep gouge in the earth, once again narrowly missing the man who understood one misstep was the end of his mortal life. He'd not get another chance, if Clyde so much as clipped him it would do more than enough damage to end the fight.

Charles fired again, backpedaling and drawing his trench knife with the free hand. This bullet was launch with too much haste, missing the target despite its bulk. Clyde swung the chainsaw again, again Charles dodged but this time he jabbed out with his knife, sinking it deep into the exposed, and much smaller, arm. The carbon-steel blade sunk into Clyde's flesh, grating against bone. The chief hissed, instinctively pulling his arm back with a power and force Charles didn't expect.

He lost his grip on the knife, watching helplessly as it protruded from the swampfolk chieftain like a macabre trophy. Once again, the Vault Dweller nearly lost his head from a chainsaw blow as Clyde lashed out, yet the swing left him vulnerable, a vulnerability Charles was happy to exploit. He fired Wild Bill's sidearm twice, emptying the chamber, both bullets striking the big creature in his right knee. Clyde howled, clearly feeling the impact along the joint.

Charles tried reloading his pistol but even crippled the chief moved too quickly dashing forward and jabbing out with the chainsaw. In his panicked retreat Charles dropped the revolver, hands scrambling to find another weapon. What he drew forward wasn't, unfortunately, his lever-action rifle, but rather the simple bat he'd been given what felt like an eternity past from his father. The object was battered, stained, but just as deadly, yet the solid hunk of hickory was no match for the monstrous chainsaw the beast wielded one handed. If he paused in an attempt to switch weapons he'd never survive the next assault. There was one chance, one slim measly chance, but it was all he had.

The Lone Wanderer held the bat in both hands and waited. Clyde lunged forward, chainsaw held outward, adrenaline and bloodlust powering him through his injured limb. Charles took a deep breath and rolled to the side, letting the chief stumble past him like a stampeding Brahmin. With all his might the young man struck the back of Clyde's injured knee with the baseball bat.

Wood struck flesh with a resounding crack and Clyde's forward momentum, combined with the injury, proved too much for his balance. The chief stumbled forward, chainsaw still screaming out as his twisted fingers proved unable to easily disengage themselves from the handle.

Bloated body struck against the whirring steel, bursting beneath the impact of the assault. Clyde cried out weakly as his body was shredded by his own weapon. No matter what the beast was, Charles couldn't watch him suffer the excruciating agony of being ripped apart slowly.

Placing the simple bat on the ground with something resembling reverence Charles drew his lever-action rifle. Walking over to the dying chieftain Charles put a bullet into his opponent's skull ending the life, and legacy, of Big Clyde forever. Holding the rifle above his head, Charles looked about him at the mob and screamed at the top of his lungs, "I have bested the greatest among you! Who else would challenge me?"

No one, as it turned out.

* * *

"Holy shit!" Nadine exclaimed, wrapping the roll of gauze around Daring's injured limb with a wide-eyed expression, "I can't believe you're alive! You're really alive! And you killed that thing in single combat!"

"It sounds like no big deal when you say it like that," Charles stated with fake hurt, sitting on a wooden crate aboard the _Duchess Gambit_ , "But yeah, I did."

"Goddamn show off," Jericho rumbled, taking a long drag on his cigarette. Despite his tone the ex-raider was clearly stunned and more than a little surprised at the turn of events, unlike Charon.

"I knew you had it in you boss," the ghoul rumbled, arms crossed, leaning against the side of the tug confidently, "Never doubted you for a second."

"And they just broke and ran?" The girl asked, struggling to believe it, despite having witnessed most of the battle from the relative security of the _Duchess Gambit_.

"They'd seen their warchief beaten, by this shrimp of a man," Riley joked, gently punching him on the shoulder, gazing adoringly into his bearded face, "That's going to rock your world." The captain of the Rangers gestured towards Tucker, "Plus, the vertibird with the big freaking gun helped, once that returned it was over."

"I guess so…"

"Listen," Daring commented, wincing as he said it from the continuing pain of his injury, "I know we're all excited in the wake of our victory, which we should be, but I don't want to tempt fate by staying on Point Lookout any longer than necessary." He glanced about wearily, the fear in his eyes overpowering the pain of his wound, "I'm starting to believe the stories that this island really is cursed after all."

"I won't miss it, that's for damn sure," Tucker, the Gunner sergeant, commented, taking a big puff on his cigar. The vertibird had landed outside the town, Molly in tow, though the corporal had lost more than enough blood to pass out. Donavan was doing his best to stabilize her, but some things weren't as easy as pulling the trigger. "But the old man's right." He jabbed the cigar towards Daring, "We need to get him and Molly back to DC ASAP. They aren't going to survive a month on this tub in their condition." The normally feisty Herbert Dashwood didn't dignify that comment with a response.

"Take Vera back to DC, with the wounded, Dogmeat, and Donavan," the Lone Wander ordered without hesitation, "We'll see you on the other side in about a month."

"You sure you want to spend a month cooped up with Riley and Charon?" Dashwood asked slyly, gazing towards the orange-haired mercenary with a grandfatherly grin.

"Honestly? I don't think there's anything I'd rather do." Charles took a huff on the adictol Donavan had set him up with, feeling the itching along his skin fade away slowly, the dark cravings he knew he wouldn't miss vanishing in time.

Jericho stamped out his cigarette, "I'm not sticking around for that," he made a face, "I think I'll keep the old man company on the trip back, besides, I've got a hell of a tale for Jenny. Don't worry, I'll be back at the dock to greet yah when you get back."  
 _I doubt that this story will make much difference to Jenny._

"Charlie," the ex-raider said after a moment, clearly awaiting a response.

"Yeah?"

"Don't get lost now."

Charles just laughed.

* * *

Time passed, he was a different man now. His beard cleaned and trimmed, wounds scarred and faded, the twinkling returned to his eye. He was stronger for what the Lookout had taught him, despite all the suffering along the way. He was free of addictions, free of guilt, ready, once again, to be the man his father always knew he could be.

Even so, despite the newly rediscovered spark in his soul and the song on his lips he couldn't help but feel the heavy weight in his sack of the dark book, holding him down. Even as Theodore kept watch over the thing, Charles had made it his mission to tie up that loose end before anything else. He was overjoyed to be back in the Capital Wasteland, mutants, rubble and ruin notwithstanding, but once that last grasp of Point Lookout let go of his soul he'd walk forward a free man, unbroken, unbeaten.

Dunwich loomed in the distance, a dark shadow on the horizon, ominous, foreboding, somewhere within the depths of that hellish place he'd find the podium, he'd destroy the book and fulfill his promise to Marcella.

Thankfully he wouldn't have to do it alone.

Beside him, Riley squeezed his hand comfortingly, "What are we thinking, babe?" She asked cautiously, gazing at the blocky structure with an air of well deserved caution, even from this distance the aura of evil given off by the building was unmistakable.

"Hell," Jericho grumbled, "Let's not wait out here thinking all day," he spat out a cloud of smoke, looking grimly towards the old office building, "We'll we're young." He glanced over towards Dashwood, "Well, some of us anyway."

"Ass," was all the old man had by way of response.

"I'm not liking the vibes here," Charon rumbled, holding his fleshless hand above his eyes to reduce the glare of the sun, "But I'll follow until the end, boss."

"Let's get it over with then," Charles said, more confident than he'd felt in a long time. "I'm several months late to meet Owen Lyons about getting this project back on track."

As the rag-tag band of heroes walked slowly towards the shadow of Dunwich Charles felt a lightness in his heart, a spring in his step.

 _It's good to have friends._

Charles, son of James, the Lone Wanderer, was no longer alone, and he was no longer broken.

* * *

Time passed by on the island as well. Without Clyde's leadership the massive swampfolk army splintered into squabbling tribes, killing each other off in due time. Ol' Joe tried to hold them together, but he was no Big Clyde and a few bullets saw to his demise. With Willie accidendtly leading his band into a swamplurk lair the devastation to the island population was unrecoverable. The swampfolk faded away, as if they'd never been, never were, eaten alive by the swamps of Point Lookout, the island's hunger still unsatisfied.

With the tribals smashed and most smugglers swearing off the island after the last great battle Point Lookout grew deathly still, trees, roots and animals laying claim to its crooked buildings and buried secrets, secrets that would remain buried.

Yet none of this bothered the shaman, not the death of his minions, not the stealing of the book, not even the loss of the island to its savage nature. Ug-Qualtoth would not be denied, his will was working, moving, changing, and that change called the shaman elsewhere.

Pulling the hood away from his eyes and shaking his head to clear his thoughts Obadiah Blackhall sat down on a patio chair that had been discarded on the beach ages ago to wait.

He had powerful friends, friends that would come for him, take him away from the island of ghosts to whatever the many changing god held in store. Obadiah was a patient man, he could, and would, wait until the moment was right.

He'd waited this long after all, he could wait a little longer.

* * *

 **AN: And so this little tale comes, at long last, to an end. Thank you all so much for your support! Your reviews, your subscriptions, your favorites, each little bit kept me going forward inspired me, challenged me and awed me. This story grew, tangled and changed, like Point Lookout itself, but it remained supported by you, so you have my thanks.  
**

 **A few dangling threads remain, namely on man named Blackhall, but don't worry, they won't stay buried forever, a few oneshots await before I begin work on the grand, sweeping, epic I have planned, a story I intend to call "Pickman's Muse." I'll see you all there I hope, and Ad Victorium to you all!**


End file.
